


Whether It Works Out Or Not

by TheRoarOfAtlas



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Cold Weather, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Excessive Drinking, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Forgive Me, Gender Disguise, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Historical Inaccuracy, I mean it's mostly compliant until not, It's time for indulgence, Just tell him he's doing a good job, Music, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Peril, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Red Dead Redemption 2 epilogue, Spoilers, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Unprotected Sex, Valentine (town), Viewpoint Switches, Yeehaw nonsense, forgive me if I make a mistake I am not far into the game at all ;-;, he's working hard, this is so indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26341732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRoarOfAtlas/pseuds/TheRoarOfAtlas
Summary: Irene Craft had lived as a man for six months when she first met him. Six glorious, difficult, yet somehow simultaneously carefree months.orA prime display of all my indulgences and favorite tropes, wrapped up in a neat little yeehaw package.[Spoiler warning for essentially the entirety of Red Dead Redemption 2!][x-posted to Tumblr]Enjoy!
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 86





	1. Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> [!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains gore/graphic depictions of violence, historical inaccuracies and general peril. Stay safe!]

Irene Craft had lived as a man for six months when she first met him. 

Six glorious, _difficult_ , yet somehow simultaneously carefree months.

The fateful night she had decided to leave her husband and make her own way in the world had been a long time coming. Every book, every treatise, every pamphlet she could get her hands on, she had _devoured_ . She had no finances to speak of, everything was in her husband's name, so she knew that her struggle would be long and fraught with peril. But she refused to endure the abuse any longer, especially once he made an idle comment about pregnancy and how it would ' _bind her to him forever._ ' 

His bone-chilling chuckle afterwards had stiffened her resolve to steel. She left as the moon waned, her mount's saddlebags full of food and the mended clothes she would need for her new life. 

In the city of Saint Denis, she sold her hair. Once her mother's pride and joy; when brushed out it reached the young woman's hips. The curls were unruly and dull russet in shade, but her mother had sworn up and down they bore auburn tones if the sun hit _just_ right. Irene wondered briefly what her mother would say about her doing this, going to be shorn like a sheep, but she quickly put the thought out of her head. Her mother had been dead for nearly five years at that point, and her father in the ground for two. He had lived long enough to see her married off to the man he deemed a suitable match, and then the good Doctor Craft had passed on.

The barber, at the very least, was sober and much more kind than she had anticipated. He didn't begrudge her the few tears she _did_ let fall, and he gave her a fair price for her locks. 

With that business settled, Irene acquired supplies with her newfound wealth and headed up into the mountains. If her luck held, no one would come looking for such a delicate, _fragile_ lady in the dangerous climes. She would take her chances, regardless.

…

The first few months were...challenging. 

There was a massive difference between having the knowledge from books and having the _experience_ that one could only garner out in the field. Bitter cold and hunger were excellent teachers though, and she had always been a quick study. Her mistakes were not often repeated. 

Irene learned how to fletch her own arrows, learned how to snare small game and how to track large prey, how to build her shelters in the lee of bluffs to fend off the howling winds that whipped through the mountains. She made her living by hunting deer and other game to sell for their hides and meat in the nearby town of Valentine. No one would look for a woman if all they saw was a man, so she kept bundled up and pitched her voice into a low rasp when she needed to interact with other folks. 

Irene had decided, in a fit of petulance, that she would call herself Frank. Franklin had been her father's name, and no doubt if he had been blessed with a son, the child would have been plagued by it as well. Doctor Craft _loathed_ it when folk called him Frank, always correcting them with a belligerent _harumph_ . Saints preserve them if they dared to call him _Frankie_.

So Frank Craft she became, the soft-spoken hunter who lived alone in the hills.

It was peaceful, but more importantly she was _free_.

Until the day she stumbled into a trap.

...

Again, she had been living in the mountains for around six months when this particular disaster struck. It had been a long day spent tracking a bull elk, which she had managed to fell just as night blanketed the landscape. Had it still been daylight out, she doubted she would have found herself in such a precarious position.

As it was, she had debated making camp right there, but ultimately decided to lash the hulking beast to her horse and forge her way back to her previous site.

She had been leading her horse through the fresh powder, not wanting to tax the weary animal, and didn't see the bear trap before her boot landed squarely in the middle of it. A mistake that would have cost her the whole leg, had she not been wearing these particular heavy furred boots. The trap also seemed worn, not crushing her foot outright as she had feared but simply gripping her ankle like a vise. 

Though admittedly, it mattered very little. She was stuck. Her horse, a skittish, ghostly pale thing by the name of Bluster, immediately panicked at the sound of the trap snapping shut and fled. Irene swore at the damn animal until her voice threatened to give out, calling him every unkind name in the book while she tried to pry the jaws of the trap open to no avail. 

She sat down awkwardly in the snow, bracing her free foot and then straining backwards in an attempt to unseat the tree that the trap's chain was secured to. Unfortunately for her, it held just fine. Then, she tried hobbling over to the tree and seeing if she could shim the chain off with a wedge, but that also proved futile.

Irene growled more obscenities under her breath, flopping onto her back and hammering her fists into the snow at her sides. " _Shit_." She sighed, the reality of her situation dawning slowly. She was trapped in a device that would no doubt cut off the circulation to her foot. There was a high probability of her losing the foot if that occurred. If, of course, she didn't perish from the cold or lack of food first. 

Irene pressed her hands to her eyes, sucking in a lungful of the crisp, pine-scented air while she tried to assure herself that she would manage to escape this mess just like all the others. She wouldn't just _give up_ , absolutely not! 

As she sat there wracking her brain and trying to see whether she could muscle the trap apart enough for her to at least wiggle her foot out of her boot, she heard the distinct sound of a horse bumbling through the undergrowth. "Bluster!" She shouted, her voice a strange combination of husky and ragged. "You _bastard_ , runnin' off at the first sign of trouble!"

But the horse that greeted her eyes first was not, in fact, Bluster. It was an appaloosa, still shaggy with its winter coat. On its back was a man in a heavy blue jacket, shearling peeking out at the collar. And in _his_ hands were the reins for the sheepish-looking Bluster, who peered around the appaloosa and whinnied guiltily at her.

"Howdy mister." The man shook Bluster's reins. "I reckon this fine specimen is yours?"

Irene had never been more thankful to see a huge, imposing man in all her life. "Yessir, yes he is. I know we've only just met, but I don't suppose you'd be willing to offer me a helping hand?" She gruffed out, indicating her trapped foot with a grimace.

The man's face was in shadow from his hat, the moonlight overhead throwing everything into stark contrast. She caught a brief flash of teeth when he smiled. "Oh sure." He drawled, dismounting and securing Bluster to a nearby tree. His own horse he simply left the reins to trail, no doubt trusting the creature to behave itself. That done, he sauntered over to her, crouched down and with one low grunt, easily forced the jaws of the trap apart. "There. Simple enough. You weren't in there for very long, were you?" He asked, sounding a bit worried while she vigorously rubbed the circulation back into her leg. With any luck, she would escape with nothing but some bruising.

"My sincerest thanks." Irene said gratefully, "no, it's hardly been an hour." She cocked her head curiously. "May I know the name of my rescuer, sir?"

"Uh, Arthur." He replied, shaking her proffered hand. "You sound like you've got some learnin' under your belt there, Mister…?"

"Frank Craft, Mister Arthur, and I don't know what fate would have befallen me had you not stumbled across the," Irene paused, raising her voice pointedly at Bluster, " _titanic_ _coward_ that is my loyal steed. I'm in your debt, my friend." She waved a hand at Bluster, indicating his heavy burden. "As you can see, I had a relatively successful hunt before this misfortune befell me. Normally I'd head into town with it at daybreak, but seeing as you've saved my life and all, it's only fair that you should have it."

"Whoa now, I ain't helped you to get your hunt." Arthur protested, tipping his head to the side and permitting the moon's illumination to reach beneath the brim of his hat. Irene was momentarily struck dumb by just how _blue_ his eyes were, nearly missing when he continued, "too many folk in this world only help other people on account of gettin' somethin' in return. If _I_ was caught in a trap and I ain't had nothin' to give you for freein' me aside from gratitude, would you leave me?"

"What? _No_ , that's barbaric." Irene almost forgot to adjust her voice, wincing when it cracked awkwardly. 

Arthur chuckled, getting to his feet and offering her a hand up. She stumbled, her foot still numb, and the man kept a firm hand on her elbow until she regained her balance. "Now, that noble hogwash bein' said, I _do_ got a lot of mouths to feed. So if the offer still stands, Mister Frank, I'd be mighty grateful."

"Absolutely! As long as you'll put it to use." And really, what was one day's worth of work to her? She could always find another creature to stalk and harvest. Bluster whickered nervously when she approached, the horse's ears flicking back and forth to catch the sound of her voice when she grumbled about his cowardice. "Kneel, Bluster." The horse clumsily obeyed and Irene untied the elk from his back, rolling it off onto the snow.

"Huh, that's a neat trick. I wouldn't have thought of that." Arthur remarked. "Teachin' a horse his dancin' steps and such."

"How else would I have gotten it up onto him?" Irene asked, grinning when Arthur chuckled again. "Of course, seeing as you muscled that trap open like it was nothing, I doubt you've ever had to worry about that sort of problem."

As if to prove her point, Arthur shouldered the elk up from the ground and neatly deposited it onto his own horse. The sturdy beast didn't so much as nicker, obviously used to this treatment. "You're more than welcome back at my camp, Mister Frank." He offered. "I reckon there's enough on this big bastard to warrant you gettin' a bowl of stew in the bargain."

Irene was already shaking her head before he could finish, politely declining his invitation. "I'm afraid I'm not suitable for most company, Mister Arthur. Been out here alone for too long. Maybe once the thaw hits, I'll suss out human companionship again." 

Arthur chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then spat off to the side. "Well, I am mighty grateful all the same, Mister Frank. I know the others will appreciate this. _Adios_ until we meet again, then?" 

He touched the brim of his hat and Irene returned the gesture with a smile. " _Adieu_ , Mister Arthur."

…

Two months went by before their paths crossed once more. 

Irene had located a dense thicket of blackberry bushes down in the lowlands and spent almost two entire days stripping the branches of their fruit. A house was coming together just outside of Valentine, and that meant soon enough there would be a gathering for the last push of assembly. As she daydreamed about the most recent time she had been to a party (a dreary affair for her husband's birthday, full of _ah the stately beauty_ and _oh isn't she a catch despite her age_ ), she failed to notice Bluster growing severely agitated about _something_. 

Now granted, the horse's name was Bluster for a reason; he was always in a twist about one thing or another. So Irene paid him very little mind. By the time she noticed the problem, Bluster had snapped his tether line and taken off like a shot.

A _bear_ , it was a bear, oh sweet _Lord_ . Irene froze, a handful of berries halfway to her mouth while the beast scratched at the ground not fifteen feet away from her. _It hasn't spotted me_ , she realized, trying desperately to recall what she had read about black bears. Was she supposed to run? Was she supposed to back away slowly? Wave her arms and yell? 

_Shit_.

The bear grumbled, glancing around and sampling the air suspiciously. It appeared to notice her and reared up on its hind legs, unleashing a deafening roar. She was frozen, her knees shaking as the creature lumbered forward. She couldn't even open her mouth to scream. It rushed her with what seemed to be the devastating speed of a locomotive and she was knocked prone, her hand darting to her side, _draw your knife idiot!_

Her head flew back from the momentum of the assault and struck the ground _hard_ when she landed, the blow sending sparking wheels of color across her vision and fading everything out for what felt like a lifetime. She had assumed she was dead, but someone shaking her shoulder roughly roused her back to consciousness. Irene groaned in pain, stirring.

" _Alright_ , he lives! Wasn't sure for a little bit there." That voice. She knew that voice. "You comin' 'round, Mister Frank?"

Frank. _Frank_. Right, that was her. She was Frank. And that voice… "Arthur?" She rasped blearily. 

He was on one knee over her, blocking out the sun with his large form. He inclined his head, drawling, "in the flesh, Mister Frank! Looks like you hit your head real hard when you landed. Put your own lights out."

Irene grimaced, moving to sit up. " _Shit_ ," she swore, touching the back of her head and feeling her fingers grow sticky with blood. _The bear_. She looked around frantically, spotting the creature slumped beside her with an arrow clean through its eye socket. 

Arthur seemed to notice her distress, placing a well-meaning hand on her shoulder. " _Easy_ now, boah. It's okay. You were lucky today, I s'pose." That hand traveled up the back of her neck, the man indelicately tipping her head forward and then whistling as he examined the wound on the back of it. " _Damn_ , you'll have a hell of a scar. Looks like it's already stopped bleedin', though." 

"How did you... _where_ did you even come from?" Irene asked in confusion. 

The man nodded in the direction of a large, grassy knoll to the west of their current location, adjusting himself absentmindedly in his pants when he settled back onto his haunches. Irene still had yet to maneuver that _particular_ tic into her 'masculine' repertoire. She struggled enough with the spitting in public, and the last thing she wanted was to be labeled a pervert or a degenerate simply on account of her adjustments being 'less than organic'. "I didn't notice you was down here until the bear did, I'm pretty sure." He remarked. "Think you startled him as much as he startled you. You foragin' for berries?"

"Yes, I...I was thinking about treats and parties and I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention." Irene admitted, her face going a little red. Whether from the frank thoughts of _adjusting_ or the shame of being caught unawares, she was uncertain.

"Blackberry pie, right?" Arthur hummed, obviously sympathizing with her distraction. "Means summer's really here. You bake things like that?" He rummaged in his satchel without waiting for a reply, pulling out a bandanna and two bottles. One bottle she recognized as whiskey, but the other was much smaller and made of a greenish glass. "You're gonna' want this to take the edge off." Arthur informed her calmly, pressing the bottle of whiskey into her hand and then uncorking the small bottle with his teeth.

"Edge?" She asked, wary now.

"Eeyup. Take a swig and I'll get started on this."

_This_ was, apparently, cleaning and dressing the wound on the back of her head. Which, incidentally, the lone slug of whiskey she drank did _nothing_ for. She didn't dare consume any more than that, however. Wine in the drawing room was one thing, but whiskey out in the berry patch was a horse of a different color. Arthur was at least _capable_ , if a little more ruthless than the average physician. She had endured worse. 

"You're a real lucky boah, Frank. Ain't deep enough to need stitchin'." 

"I do feel _immensely_ lucky today." Irene replied dryly, "a dead bear at my feet, a stomach full of fresh blackberries and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. Tell me, how could my life get any better than this?" She cringed in pain but the sensation quickly dulled in the wake of Arthur's gravelly chuckle.

"Gotta' say, you did a damn fine job of distractin' that bear. Let me get the easiest shot I've ever taken." He remarked conversationally after several minutes of silence. 

"Mister Arthur, should I _ask_ what it is that you're daubing all over the back of my head? Or is that a fool's errand?"

"What, this? Some uh…" he paused, flipping the bottle over and squinting at the label. "Ginseng and yarrow. Ol' Hosea swears by it and he's been alive longer n' most."

Irene relaxed slightly. The combination didn't sound too sinister, though she was unfamiliar with herbal medicine that wasn't refined tinctures. This was more of a paste than anything, Arthur constantly stopping to coax a bit more of it down the neck of the bottle. "Well, I'm very grateful, Mister Arthur. You don't have to-"

"I know." Arthur interrupted her. "You ain't beholden to me or anythin', don't fret. Though if you'd _like_ to stick around an' help me butcher up that bear, I wouldn't say no." 

"Are you still hunting for a small army?"

Arthur sounded rueful when he replied, "feels like there's more of 'em every damn day. I'll be takin' this kill into town. The women want the essentials, their flour and sugar and such." He grumbled, "dunno' why they need so damn much flour."

"Well, how else will they make pies?" Irene pointed out.

"Huh. S'pose you're right." Arthur said after a moment, seeming surprised. "Guess I never grew out the phase of thinkin' pies an' cakes just show up fresh on windowsills."

Cleanly skinning and butchering the good-sized bear was a long and arduous process, even with two sets of hands working on the task. Bluster had reemerged from the woods after a time and now grazed peacefully alongside Arthur's mare, that appaloosa from before who had since shed her winter coat. 

Arthur finally sat back on his haunches, wiping the sweat off his forehead and accidentally leaving a rusty red trail of blood in its wake. "Welp, I dunno' about you, Mister Frank. But I could certainly do with a wash-up and a meal." He had taken his hat off while they worked, his tawny, sun-streaked hair curling around his ears and sticking out at odd angles from the sweat. "Join me for supper, won't you?" He requested, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the stream that flowed in a gully past the knoll. "Ain't nobody can chide me about takin' the best bits of the critter if nobody knows." He continued with a smirk. "Can I trust you not to rat me out, Frank?"

Irene hesitated. She _was_ hungry and tired from the long day. Arthur didn't seem all that dangerous. Or rather, he _obviously_ was, but in a way that was honest and blunt. "Absolutely." She replied firmly. "Your secret is safe with me, Mister Arthur."

"Now, I _am_ gonna' ask for a handful or two of them berries you got." Arthur carried on as he got to his feet, extending a hand to help her up. "As rec... _recompense_ and such."

Irene sighed dramatically. "Ah, I should have known no good deed goes unpunished. And here I thought that offering myself up as unwitting bait was more than enough to justify a mouthful or two of meat."

Arthur's laugh was raucous, the large man clapping her on the back hard enough to make her stumble. "You're a good man, Frank."

"Nowhere near as good as you, Arthur." She retorted with a grin, confused by the way his face darkened.

"'Fraid I'd never be able to claim that title, Frank." Arthur said quietly, the mirth gone from his expression. "Beardless youth like yourself ain't oughta' cast me in any sort of decent light. I ain't a good person."

"Hey, what was it you said when you freed me up from that trap? ' _Too many folk in this world only help other people on account of gettin' somethin' in return_ ', right?" Irene reminded him, trying to mimic his deep, honeyed drawl. She must have done a poor job, because Arthur cracked a reluctant smile. "You've helped me twice, now! Surely that warrants a smattering of decent light, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aw hell, Frank, I just don't want you developin' any lofty notions about my character is all! Don't want you gettin' your hopes dashed." Arthur protested. "I ain't no saint or role model or anythin' like that."

"Don't worry about my preconceptions, Mister Arthur. I don't view you as a role model at all." Irene wanted to laugh at how crestfallen he looked, despite his big talk. She splashed water on her hands, scrubbing at the blood on them with some of the sand from the riverbed. "I view you as a friend. A friend with flaws and drawbacks just like myself. Just like _all_ human beings have." She elaborated, startled when Arthur crouched beside her on the riverbank and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you." The man said sincerely, his blue eyes warm and bright. "That means a whole lot to me, Mister Frank. I'd like to count you as a friend myself, if I could."

Irene forgot her tongue for a moment, ensnared by the blatantly _hopeful_ look he was giving her. _He must have any woman within fifty miles of here falling head over heels for him!_ "You'll have a remarkably difficult time trying to get rid of me, Mister Arthur. I'm very persistent." She finally managed to respond. "Like a mangy mutt once you feed it some table scraps."

"I reckon it's settled then." Arthur's smile had returned, and Irene found herself oddly pleased that she had been the one to bring it back.

...

They camped there under the stars that night. 

Arthur planned to head into town the following day, where he would sell off the bear and then assist in the last few steps of the house building. But for now, he occupied himself with creating a roast fit for a king. Irene watched curiously as he studded the whole cut with herbs, finally daring to ask him a few questions about cooking. He obliged her with answers graciously and freely. Despite his opinionated stance on baking, he obviously had no such reservations when it came to cooking.

"I'm always afraid my ignorance of plants will get me into serious trouble. Lord only knows how many poisonous things I could consume if left to my own devices." Irene admitted, certain that he must think her foolish.

Arthur rummaged around in his satchel and pulled out a worn leather-bound journal. He tossed her the notebook, chuckling lowly when she nearly fumbled it. "I sketch a fair amount, look at the last pages. Check the margins for whether it's edible or not."

When she tugged loose the strap that held the journal closed and obediently cracked it open to the last few pages, Irene was flabbergasted. Sprawled across the pages were both detailed drawings and fleeting sketches of various plants and animals. " _Arthur_ ," she said, her voice breaking as she nearly forgot to pitch it lower. The older man glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. "These are _incredible_."

"What is?" Arthur asked in confusion. It abruptly seemed to dawn on him and he grinned sheepishly, shaking his head. "Oh, my l'il drawin's? They're just somethin' to pass the time, mostly. Done 'em ever since I was a kid."

"They're amazing!" Irene praised, making sure her hands were clean and free of grease before she even dared to hover her fingertips over the sketched snout of a border collie. "You actually capture the motion of the creature, which is a rare talent. I've seen a lot of art in my day, Mister Arthur, but few pieces have the same amount of _life_ in them that your work displays."

"Aw shucks Frank, you're layin' it on pretty thick ain't ya'?" Arthur protested, and his face might not have been pink from just the heat of the fire. "It's nothin' special."

"Oh it absolutely is. These are...I mean all the plants are so _detailed_. Easily identifiable. Can you draw people and structures as well?" 

Arthur took the journal back and carefully flipped through it to a few different pages, showing her that his skill extended to more than just plants and animals. An oil derrick sketched proud and tall against the blank-page sky, a blind man who he had come across in his travels, a two-page spread of a small camp titled _Horseshoe Overlook_... "Like I said, though, ain't nothin' special." He finished firmly, tucking the sketchbook back into his satchel. 

"You ought to make a book!" Irene suggested. "For those of us ingrates that wouldn't know oregano from our elbow."

"Me? A book?" Arthur scoffed at the idea. "Last thing I want is more attention."

"Well...you could do it under a pseudonym!"

"A _what?_ Listen here, Frank, I ain't no good Christian man, but I ain't about to pseudo...seedo...look, I ain't doin' nothin' to nobody's _nims_ , alright?" Arthur sounded absolutely scandalised. 

"Arthur, a pseudonym is just a fake name." Irene explained.

"Oh. _Oh_ . Shit. Well I knew _that_ ." Arthur blustered at her, huffing out a breath. "Just...makin' sure _you_ knew, is all!"

"Of course." Irene got to her feet, dusting herself off. "So. He can cook, he can draw, he can hunt…" she trailed off, doing her best to keep her tone light as Arthur continued to mumble in a flustered manner and fidget with the brim of his hat. "Is there anything you can't do, Mister Arthur?"

His laugh in reply was devoid of humor, a bitter noise. "Sure. Can't seem to stay out of trouble. More accurately though, can't seem to avoid gettin' dragged _into_ trouble."

Irene squatted beside him next to the fire, debating giving his shoulder a rough shove of comradery. But the concern of accidentally knocking him over into the embers was enough to make her gentle her touch to a light pat. "I'm sorry to hear that, Arthur." She said quietly.

"Ah, don't pay me no mind, Frank. I'm just bellyachin'." Arthur placed his hand over hers absently, like it was an instinctive response. "You're a good kid. Don't get yourself tangled up in someone else's woes like I have, you understand me?" He admonished her sternly. 

"I'm hardly a _child_ , Mister Arthur." Irene protested. "I am nearly twenty-seven." 

"What, without a lick of facial hair and your voice still shatterin'?" He teased, grazing her bare jaw with a large hand. "Naw, you ain't. But it's okay, your secret's safe with me."

"Arthur." Irene grabbed his hand, staring him down. She wasn't sure why _this_ of all things was what she was caught up on. Maybe it was the notion that he believed she, or rather, _Frank_ , was some fool stripling that had just been lucky so far. "I'm _not_ a child."

Arthur stared at her, and for a split-second Irene was certain she had sold herself out. But then the older man abruptly guffawed, clapping her on the back. "No, I s'pose you ain't. You got old steel in them eyes of yours, Frank. Seen too much for your time on this earth, I imagine."

...

The final day had come at long last. 

Irene hurried to help finish the last few clapboards for the outside of the house, nearly crushing her thumb with the hammer in her haste. 

Various men and women from Valentine proper had already started to gather in the yard. Tables were being shuffled together, delicious smells coming from the freshly-christened firepit. Spirits were high and laughter was loud in the sunshine of midday, and Irene couldn't help her smile as she looked around. 

It was truly a marvelous thing to be a part of a community that willingly accepted anyone who would help, regardless of their past transgressions. She felt utterly at peace here, even in the midst of such organized chaos. 

A heavy arm landed around her shoulders and she felt a hand nearly shove the hat clean off her head. "There he is!" Arthur announced gladly, making her laugh. "It's finally time for the fun! You gonna' be stickin' around this evenin'?" 

"Maybe." Irene allowed, letting him haul her into his side with his grip on her shoulders. Arthur didn't seem to actually know just how _strong_ he was, which strangely enough made her feel safer around him. "And you, Arthur?"

"I wouldn't miss it!" The man replied, his voice bright with excitement. "Been too long since there was a reason to celebrate. Was a hard winter. Folks need this shit." 

"Absolutely." Irene ducked out from beneath his arm and straightened her hat. "I'll see you later, Arthur. Gotta' go get washed up!" 

Valentine was barely a five minute walk down the road, but impatience ate away at her and she broke into a jog. She'd hatched a plan for tonight. A foolhardy, _stupid_ plan. She still had no clear idea _why_ she was doing this, even as she sauntered up the steps to the Valentine hotel. 

Irene slapped her money down on the counter, paying up front for a bath and a room for the night. Her spurs rattled loudly while she made her way up the stairs, nerves building in her throat like frantic bird wings beating away just beneath the skin.

It had been a short eternity since she had even _seen_ herself in a looking glass, much less worn a dress. 

The dress itself was nothing like the elaborate ones she had worn during her marriage. It was a plain fawn-brown color, lacking in lace trim or cumbersome whale bone buttons. A dress for this new life she had made, one that she could don and doff unaided.

Once she had scrubbed herself pink with the provided tub of hot bathwater and lye soap that threatened to be _iris-scented_ , of all things, Irene stepped into the dress and slowly buttoned the tiny buttons that ran the length of the front. Thankfully, the cut was modest enough that she wouldn't need a fichu to cover up with.

She had been avoiding looking at herself in the mirror until she absolutely _had_ to, and when she finally did gather her courage she was shocked by what met her gaze. She looked older, of course, a bit more weathered, but she looked _alive_ . She had haunted her husband's house like a ghost, gaunt and battered and _seen not heard_. Now though, her eyes were clear and her cheeks were pink even without pinching, a byproduct of the fresh outdoor air. Her shoulders were freckled liberally as well, though the dress hid them well enough with its high neckline and long sleeves. Her mother had always tried to dull her freckles out with those blasted rose tea treatments and lemon, but the spots had stubbornly persisted.

Her hair though…

She grimaced, raking her fingers through the sun-lightened corkscrews that bounced and sprang back around her ears. It seemed that, as usual, her hair would be hopelessly unmanageable. Mercifully, since she always wore a hat, at least her hair wouldn't be the thing to give her away. Wonder of all wonders, it _did_ appear that there was some auburn mixed in with the brown.

Irene emerged from her room, locking the door securely behind her and tucking the key into her pocket. She paused to straighten out her skirts, smiling a little dumbly downwards at the pleats while she swished back and forth in a brief moment of indulgence. However, no sooner had she stopped to do so than a large body in a hurry nearly toppled her over. She heard a startled grunt as the person managed to catch her, and then a familiar voice apologized, "sorry ma'am! 'Fraid I'm like a bull in a china shop sometimes."

_Arthur_ , it was Arthur. Oh _Lord_ . Irene stared at his boots in an effort to buy herself time to collect her thoughts, noticing dimly that he too had bathed and clearly attempted to tidy himself up. Did she come clean right now? Confess that she wasn't Frank at all, but Irene? Lord, this whole plan was _stupid!_ What had she been _thinking?!_ "Oh no sir, I should be the one apologizing. I was so excited for the festivities I appear to have forgotten my sensibilities." Her voice was soft and she looked up at him through her lashes, wondering whether he would even recognize her without a layer of grime on her face. "Forgive my inattention, won't you?"

Arthur, for some reason, swallowed _hard_ . " _Well_ , ain't you just as pleasant as punch! You must be from outta' town. My name's Arthur, ma'am, and it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He gave her a little half-bow and Irene barely contained her relief at his blatant unfamiliarity with her. Obviously she needn't have worried. 

"My name is Irene, Mister Arthur, and trust me, the pleasure is all mine." She replied, automatically accepting the hand he offered. "Are you looking forward to the party as well?"

"Oh sure, Miss Irene." That drawl lingered _sinfully_ on the syllables of her Christian name and Irene felt herself blush. "It's a rough life out here, only makes sense for folks to take what joy they can find where they can find it." Arthur glanced down at her, his smile a bit melancholy. "House raisin's hard work, but it's less tedious if we all know there's somethin' lighthearted waitin' at the end. Good food, good company…" He trailed off, clearing his throat.

"Of _that_ , I'm certain!" Irene dared to continue holding his arm once they reached the street, and Arthur made no move to dislodge her. "Do you think there will be dancing, Mister Arthur?"

He chuckled at her obvious excitement. "I s'pose there might be. I'm not much one for dancin', though."

"Well," Irene said boldly, "I would be just _delighted_ if I could steal a dance with you at some point this evening."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up to his golden-brown hairline. "You sure you got the right feller, ma'am?" 

"Of course! Please Arthur, won't you save me a dance?" She implored sweetly.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. "Alright, which one of 'em put you up to this? It was Karen, weren't it. Woman won't stop interferin' in my personal affairs." He growled, "I ain't lookin' for _pity_ , Miss Irene."

"What?" Irene asked in confusion. "No, I haven't been put up to anything. I...I simply wanted a dance. Have I offended you, Mister Arthur?" This could be an _irreparable_ blunder! Her plan might be in shambles.

"Aw hell, now I feel like a fool." Arthur rubbed a hand over the back of his neck sheepishly. "Pardon my suspicion, Miss Irene. I'm used to bein' passed over is all." He mumbled. 

" _What?_ " Irene gasped theatrically, loving the way his laughter rumbled in his chest. "A fine man such as yourself, passed over? That's deplorable, Mister Arthur!"

"Shucks ma'am, I'm passable decent, but I don't know if I'd ever call myself _fine_ ." Arthur smiled, his face a bright, endearing pink. _Oh_ , complimenting him elicited the _sweetest_ results! Irene was enraptured.

"Would you accompany me along the path to the festivities, Mister Arthur? I'm afraid I have no chaperone this evening." She implored. It was so strange, sliding easily back into being able to make polite conversation or clinging to an arm with rapt attention while a man spoke. She supposed all those etiquette lessons had done her _some_ good. At least with Arthur she didn't have to feign her attention.

He nodded, swallowing hard again. "Sure, I can do that, Miss Irene."

"Oh!" Irene said suddenly like a thought had just occurred to her, the young woman making a move to pull away. "I apologize, Mister Arthur. It is so presumptive of me to monopolize your time. Did I interrupt you on your way to the Mrs. Arthur? Or perhaps a tryst with your beloved? I'm afraid I've always been rather self-absorbed, _do_ forgive me."

He chuckled sadly, shaking his head. "Ma'am, there's no need for all that." He said, patting her arm in a way that he probably believed was soothing. Irene barely refrained from laughing at the knowledge that he calmed _people_ like he calmed his _horse_ . "All I'm headin' for tonight is some merriment with the local folk." He paused, still patting her hand absently. "Y'know, I think you'd get on real well with a friend of mine by the name of Frank." Arthur remarked, appearing oblivious to the way she froze. "He's got some real hellfirin' opinions and a noble heart. Nothin' like me _at all_ , a genuine, sweet boah. Outspoken, but kinda' shy 'round lots of folks. If we stumble across him, I'll introduce you."

"Oh I very much doubt that we'll see him tonight." Irene muttered under her breath to herself, a little puffed up by the praise Arthur had inadvertently lavished upon her.

…

There was indeed food and drink, and Irene found herself in the midst of conversation more often than not. It was incredibly amusing to know that all she needed to do was wash the dirt off her face and don a dress to make 'Frank' disappear into the ether. But again, that had been the whole point. 

The musicians were tuning up when she noticed something odd. There was an unmanned violin (or fiddle, perhaps), sitting forlorn and silent on the front steps. Irene straightened out her dress and made her way carefully over to the stairs. "Pardon me, sirs," she called cheerfully. "but where is your violinist?"

"Ah, I'm sorry ma'am, but ol' Jefferson died durin' the winter." The guitarist informed her, looking a touch morose. "Figured we'd bring out his Hyde so it could at least listen to all the hubbub. Be a shame to leave it to gather dust."

"My deepest condolences." Irene murmured, going to turn away and then biting her lip as she paused. "Sirs, I...perhaps I could be of assistance? I have...some prior experience with violin." Nobody needed to know about the years spent learning, and the few bright moments in her marriage being her improvising quick, jaunty tunes alone in the drawing room. Leaving the instrument behind had been like leaving a piece of her heart, but it was so delicate and fragile…

"Well if you think you can keep up, you're more n' welcome to rosin the bow ma'am." The man smiled, gesturing at the fiddle. "It would do it some good to be played again, I'll wager." 

Irene was scooping up the instrument almost before he had finished speaking, immensely pleased to find out that it was relatively in tune. The man that she assumed would be the step caller graciously handed her a handkerchief to pad her cheek when she tucked the violin into place, and Irene spent several minutes hurriedly tightening and rosining up the bow. 

The first draw emitted a note that was clear, if a bit flat. Irene grinned sheepishly, fidgeting with the tuning pegs and then trying again. _Ah_ , there it was. The instrument had a beautifully rich voice, no doubt facilitated by the stockier body it bore.

"Ladies and gentlemen, finish up your food! It's time for the real fun to begin!" The caller announced over the buzz of the populace. Tables began to move out of the way, clearing the front yard. 

"I see you're the fiddler this evenin'?" Irene started at the sound of Arthur's voice. She had lost track of him shortly after arriving to the party, the man apologizing to her even while he was getting dragged off by a dark-haired woman in a beautiful green dress. Now, he reclined against the railing, his eyes troubled but smile firmly in place.

"Hopefully, if the good Lord is merciful. It has been quite a while." Irene admitted. "I'd still _very_ much like that dance, Arthur, if your other beaus don't keep you occupied." She jibed. Perhaps it was a bit bold for a woman to comment on an older man's pursuits, but she _did_ feel that she could get away with a touch of good-natured ribbing.

"Welp," Arthur drawled, doffing his hat. "I s'pose we'll just have to see how the night goes, Miss Irene. I wouldn't call 'em _beaus_ though. Just folks that want somethin' from me."

Irene tilted her head to the side, but Arthur managed to avoid her gaze. Following his line of sight, she noticed he appeared to be watching the dark-haired woman from earlier. "Who is your friend? I _must_ know her seamstress, Mister Arthur, because that dress is lovely." 

"Mary." Arthur muttered, the name sounding like it was dragged out of him. "Uh, that is, the widow Linton."

"Oh no, the poor thing." Irene said sadly, meaning every word. There had been a time in her life where she had been utterly devoted to her fiance, believing that she had truly loved him. She could not begrudge anyone their own happiness, as wary as she had been made from her past experience. As the saying went, ' _see how the bear behaves in its den before you decide to live with it_.' 

"Eeyup, real shame. Pneumonia got him." Arthur informed her curtly.

Irene was sure her sympathy was evident on her face, because Arthur's sharp blue eyes had softened slightly when he looked back at her. Pneumonia was so sinister in its onset, the way it settled into the chest and by the time most patients realized it _wasn't_ a cold, they were too far gone to help. "You should ask her to dance! Get her mind off of things." She suggested.

Arthur chuffed out a breath in a manner that was so similar to his horse Irene had to chew her lower lip to stave off her laughter. "Nope." He said firmly. "Mary shall not dance with me, Miss Irene. Not if I have anythin' to say about it. I doubt I'll dance much at all, honestly."

…

Arthur appeared to be sticking to his word throughout the night. He was indeed not much for dancing, but as he drank he got progressively more _mobile_. It was like his body loosened up, he smiled more, laughed louder…

He seemed absolutely _thrilled_ when she found him later that evening, saying plainly, "There she is! I figured you forgot about me!" 

Irene shook her head, smiling up at him. She had _politely declined_ her way across nearly the entire yard in order to reach him. "I don't think I ever could, Mister Arthur. May I ask for a dance?"

"Obliged to oblige, ma'am." Arthur extended a hand, drawing her in almost indecently close. "That was some fine music you played earlier." He drawled after a moment. 

Irene simply let herself be swayed back and forth, one hand on his shoulder and the other still entwined with his own. "Thank you." She replied softly. "It has been a while since I was able to indulge myself."

"Fiddlin' ain't a vice, ma'am." Arthur protested.

Irene chuckled. "Some might disagree, Mister Arthur."

"Well, they're wrong. How the hell could music be _bad_ for someone?" He removed his hand from her hip to wave over at the group of men who were still currently playing away. "Music's good for the _soul_. Makes everythin' lighter. What miserable fools have you had to deal with?" Arthur grumbled.

Irene rolled her eyes comically. "Lord, you don't know the _half_ of it!"

Arthur pressed her even tighter to his body, his breath hot over her ear when he murmured, "well Irene, they're dead wrong."

"Mister Arthur…" Irene went bright red at his proximity, at the _heat_ that flooded her. What a strange sensation! Even back when she had been newly betrothed, before she had known her then-fiancé's cruelty, she had never experienced such a fierce reaction from a simple close whisper. Was it only to be chalked up to the newness of the experience? Or was it because it was _Arthur_ doing it? 

"Irene, I hope I ain't bein' too forward when I...would you like to…" Arthur trailed off, clearing his throat. "I mean, I ain't got anythin' to offer you aside from a good time," he continued to hem and haw. "You seem like a genuine lady and I...someone like me ain't never really been allowed to _touch_ that sort of person. I sleep under the stars and drink too much for _anyone's_ good, never mind my own." His eyes met her own and a slow, almost _forlorn_ smile played across his mouth. 

Despite the ribald impropriety of his words he looked so utterly _tender_ , his hat slightly tilted and his eyes drowsily gentle. Irene found herself nodding before he even managed to actually _ask_ her. "I have a room for the night, Mister Arthur. I am…" she hesitated. "Not... _very_ experienced, but not inexperienced."

"Thank _God_ ." Arthur replied, surprising her. "You wouldn't want someone like _me_ for somethin' like your first time."

"Oh?" Clearly, they had careened past the point of polite or _appropriate_ conversation. But now, she was _curious_. "Why is that, Mister Arthur?"

He coughed, fidgeting with the brim of his hat. "I'm just...I'm not... _fit_ for that sorta' thing. Not worth it. Fine ladies deserve a proper gentleman an' I ain't that." He stated. 

"Arthur…" Irene took his hands and tugged on them, leading him out of the yard and towards the roadside. "You're more of a gentleman than most, I can promise you that." She insisted.

"Miss Irene, wait!" The sound of her name being yelled made her pause, and Irene found herself abruptly confronted with the step caller as he thrust the fiddle's sturdy case at her. "Me and the boys, we got to talkin'. We figure you ought to keep the old Hyde, as a thank you of sorts." He said, sweeping his hat off his head. "Besides, if you leave it here it'll never be played. And there's nothin' worse than an unplayed fiddle. Believe me, I would know!" 

"I…" Irene wanted to burst into tears. This was so unexpected and _kind_. The case settled into her arms, like an old friend already. "B-But I have no way to-"

"Not for money ma'am. Simply for liftin' folks' spirits tonight. You take that Hyde and you spread that gift of yours around." 

" _Thank you_." Irene said sincerely, "I...you have no idea how much this means to me, sir."

"Mighty kind of you fellers." Arthur added, his grin a little sheepish when the caller turned his attention on _him_ to express his thanks for Arthur's help in acquiring the remaining lumber for the house. He tried to wave off the praise to no avail, looking increasingly awkward the longer he was subjected to the step caller's enthusiasm.

The woman from earlier (Irene wracked her brain for a moment before remembering _Mary_ , _Mary_ ) approached on Arthur's opposite side while he was preoccupied with the step caller. However, she didn't miss the way Arthur's posture went tight as he noticed Mary standing there expectantly. Arthur suddenly seized Irene's hand, muttered a curt, " _obliged_ ," to the step caller and set off at a brisk pace down the road. 

"Don't forget that you _promised_ , Arthur Morgan!" The widow Linton called after him, her voice sharp. Arthur just waved a dismissive hand in her general direction.

Irene struggled to keep up even after Arthur scooped the case out of her arms, the man's longer legs easily outstripping her own. "Arthur, can you slow down?" She implored, a little fearful now. He looked like he was stewing, his shoulders squared against some invisible adversary.

Arthur obliged her in silence. He maintained that silence until they reached the outskirts of town, where he clarified, "you had a room, right?"

"Yes, I...yes. For the night." Irene answered softly. Arthur just nodded in reply. "Arthur, you don't-"

"I ain't gonna' hurt you." He cut her off. "You have my word, Miss Irene. Ain't got nothin' to fear from me."

Irene was still more than a touch anxious as they ascended the stairs, and she almost dropped the key, fumbling to get it into the lock. Arthur hummed low in his throat, that comforting horse pat landing on her arm again and soothing her enough that she managed to get the door open.

Arthur carefully set the case against the wall, and then he was on her. He kissed hungrily, his whole body pressed to hers before the door was even fully shut behind them. His _tongue_ plunged into her mouth without so much as a warning or a _by your leave_ . Irene had only _read_ about this kind of kissing and experiencing it firsthand was composure-shattering. She found herself weak at the knees, grateful for the weight of Arthur's large form to anchor herself as he boldly coaxed her tongue to reply.

Irene shyly licked into his mouth, making a soft noise that had Arthur shuddering and offering his own groan in response. He pulled away, _slow_ , like he was being dragged, and struggled to bring her with him.

The man sat down hard on the bed, urging her close in between his spread legs. Then, Arthur grabbed two handfuls of the back of her dress and rested his forehead on the spot directly beneath her breasts. 

Irene froze, confused until she felt his shoulders tremble. 

He was _crying_ , like his heart was fit to break. Deep, shuddering sobs that came from somewhere by the floorboards and ravaged his entire body on the way up. Hesitantly, Irene carded her fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head. She could feel the tears seeping into the fabric of her dress, slowly dampening the material.

"It's just _never_ enough." Arthur finally said thickly. He stayed where he was, wearily slurring into her abdomen, "I give an' I give an' I _do_ an' it's just...never enough to make folks happy."

"Arthur..." Irene whispered. She felt silly for not noticing sooner than something was _very_ wrong, guilt rushing her as she realized that she had been so caught up in him giving her attention that she must have missed the signs.

"It's never enough that I'm just _there_ , still alive, still _willin'_ , even though I'm a damn fool. Never enough." He mumbled, " _God_ , I'm a fool."

"No you're _not_ ." Irene said firmly. Arthur looked up at her. "You're brave, you're loyal and you're _kind_ , Arthur. It's not your fault that the people around you seem to have taken those traits for granted."

"We was plannin' to be married, y'know. Me an'...me an' Mary." He confessed abruptly, not that he needed to. "Or maybe it was just me plannin'. She...I just don't know."

"What happened? Did she call it off?"

"Her daddy, he didn't approve of me. I didn't have... _enough_ ," Arthur explained, his words stilted as he recounted probably more than he meant to. "I was orphaned pretty early on and I...well shit, I hung around with folks bad and good an' to Mr. Gillis, that was worth a condemnation. Forbade it. Said I was filthy, that I'd c'rupt... _corrupt_ her. Ruin her. Break her with these _turrible_ hands of mine." The hands in question gripped Irene's dress even tighter and he fought back a sob. "So I...I had to let her go. Watched her fall in love with some rich feller and it made me wonder, made me scared that she ain't never loved me at all. And then tonight..." He shook his head.

"What about tonight, Arthur?" Irene prompted him gently.

"She come to me askin' for a damn _favor_. After _everythin'_ that's happened, she still had the damn _gall_ to ask me for shit. Her little brother's gone off to shack up with some cult ." Arthur cleared his throat. "So I'm too _rough_ to marry, but I'm sure as hell good enough to ask to rescue her precious baby brother. She said _she thinks of me_ _often_ and I just... _dammit_ , it ain't right for her to tell me that!" He erupted, hiccupping out yet another sob. "It ain't right, I finally thought I was--I mean I was doin' _okay_ , I was better, an' now…"

"It feels like you just hit a patch of shale and slid your way back down into the bottom of the gorge you were crawling out of." 

Arthur sniffled. "Well, yeah. Kinda'. H-How'd you know?"

"You think you're the only person in the world to have troubles with people you were trying to recover from?" Irene's laugh was soft and sad. "My situation is a bit different, but no less weighty for it, Mister Arthur."

Arthur huffed out a breath, rubbing his forehead back and forth on her stomach. "I just hate myself. Can't hate her, all I can do is hate m'self." He sighed.

"Don't." Irene admonished him, trawling her fingers through his thick hair and dragging his head back with the motion. Arthur groaned again, this time lower, his eyes half-lidding as he appeared to enjoy being ministered to. "Don't hate yourself for being kind, Arthur, and don't let the world beat that kindness out of you. There are people, _so_ many people who will love you for it. Hell, there's probably some that already do." 

Blue eyes blinked open sluggishly, still glassy with tears as he looked up at her. Liquor-honest words tumbled from his lips, "why the hell are you bein' so nice to me? Led you up here for a reason an' now I'm all a mess about another woman." He shook his head, not waiting for a response before continuing, "I just wanna' sleep. Forget about all of this. I...lay down with me? I need...I need...somethin' to hang onto." He mumbled, tugging at the back of her skirt. "Clothes on is fine. Just need to hold you. Few minutes, even." He pleaded.

Irene bit her lip uncertainly. Laying down fully-clothed? It seemed a bit strange. But she didn't have on a corset, so at least she wouldn't be uncomfortable… "Alright." She agreed softly after a moment, reaching down to unlace her boots. _Hopefully_ Arthur was too inebriated to notice that 'her' boots were also Frank's boots. He seemed more than a few sheets to the wind, if his weeping was anything to judge by.

Arthur clumsily kicked off his own boots and laid on his side, catching her arm to guide her down with her back to his chest. It was somewhat awkward at first; Irene had never actually been _held_ in such a manner and the bed was incredibly small. She knew she was probably too stiff, and slowly urged her shoulders to loosen a bit. Arthur draped his arm over her hips, not even holding her so much as he was simply laying his hand on her stomach.

"Thank you." He mumbled into the back of her neck, still sniffling a little. 

Irene tentatively placed her hand over his own, lacing her fingers through his. "Shh, sleep. You'll feel better in the morning, Arthur." She whispered. Then, so quiet she wasn't sure he would even hear her, "thank _you_ , Arthur. For everything."


	2. Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains attempted suicide and brief mentions of previous abuse. Stay safe!]

Irene, or rather, _Frank_ , her face layered with a fresh coat of grime, was just putting the finishing touches on saddling her horse when Arthur made his presence known the following morning. He looked...surprisingly decent for the amount of drinking that he had done the day before, only slightly disheveled. The large man strode into the stables, looking around wildly. " _Frank!_ " He bellowed, making Bluster rear in panic. 

Irene went to take a step back and toppled over a hay bale, barely avoiding braining herself on the packed-dirt floor. " _Yes_ , Arthur?" She grunted wryly, catching hold of the binds on the bale and going to sit back up.

"Where the hell were you yesterday?" Arthur questioned, offering her a hand and easily pulling her to her feet. "I thought you was comin' back to the party!"

Irene furrowed her brow in mock confusion. "I did, Arthur! I hung around the outskirts, though. Pilfered some treats and kept to myself. It was all so _loud_ , you know how much I like my peace and quiet." 

Arthur seemed agitated and she said as much, making him chuckle sadly. "Ah, I'm just outta' sorts. Got a little too in the bottle last night. It's all a blur." He mumbled the next bit, "not sure if she's real or not."

"Who?" Irene asked.

Arthur started, like he hadn't thought she would hear him. "Uh, a Miss Irene. Never got her last name." He admitted.

"Oh, the fiddler!" Irene said, feigning comprehension. "Spoke to her this morning, actually. I play as well, so we had a brief discussion on the topic while she saddled up." Irene patted the sturdy case for the fiddle, affixed to the side of Bluster's saddle. "But she was off like a shot shortly afterwards."

" _Dammit_." Arthur cursed. "Did she say where she was headed to?"

"Afraid not, Arthur. She _did_ tell me to tell you 'thank you', whatever _that_ means." Irene winked at Arthur, laughing when he flushed bright pink to the tips of his ears.

"Shut _up_ , it ain't...it's not _like_ that." Arthur grumbled bashfully. "Listen, I ain't got time for this. I have to-" he paused, rubbing a hand contemplatively over the fresh stubble on his face. " _Actually_ , Frank, you wanna' tag along? Might be more useful to have two of us, we can corral him easy that way. Jamie's prone to startlin'. More nervous than a cat in a room fulla' rockin' chairs."

"What are you off to do _now?_ " 

"Fetchin' somebody's kid brother back from the Chelonians."

"No rest for the wicked _or_ for you, I suppose." Irene didn't mean to sound like she was scolding him, but 'Frank's' tenuous tenor had a decidedly chastising tone to it. After all, _she_ knew why he was doing this, though Arthur didn't know that she knew. "Well, I've got nothing particularly _pressing_ that warrants my attention, if you would like my company." She allowed. Then, she cast her mind back over what he had said. "Wait. What's a Chelonian?"

Arthur groaned. "I'll explain on the way, Frank."

...

The boy named Jamie was _apparently_ Mary's younger brother, and he had gotten caught up in a cult. 

Irene whistled once Arthur seemed to have talked himself dry, swatting at a horsefly on Bluster's flank. "What a _mess_."

"You're tellin' me." Arthur growled. "Woman shows back up and just...drops her damn problem into my lap like a pile of hog shit. And I'm the fool that agreed to see what I could do!" He shook his head, seeming disgusted with himself. "All it took was her sayin' ' _I think of you often_ ' and it was over. She knew it too, that's the worst part. She knows exactly what I'll do for her." He slapped his forehead, moaning, " _God_ Frank, I'm such a fool."

"It's admirable of you to help a former beau. I know many men wouldn't give the object of their affections the time of day once they had broken something off." Irene commended him, though it was admittedly reluctant as she privately thought that Arthur was being used. "Granted, leaving her to sort problems out for herself every once and a while probably couldn't hurt."

"She's real worried about Jamie. She thinks these fellers will hurt him." Arthur made his excuses and Irene didn't begrudge him them. It was no doubt just nice for him to feel wanted again, even for a brief period of time. Judging from how sad he had been last night, he had clearly cared deeply for Mary at one point. Perhaps he still did. 

"Will you court her again? Now that she's a widow, I mean." Irene asked. All she received in reply to her question was a bone-deep sigh and a shake of his head. After a moment, Arthur spurred his horse to a brisk canter. Clearly, the time for their discussion was over.

They made good time towards Carmody Dell, the weather beautiful and the roads relatively dry. Arthur stayed silent for the duration of the trip, the man obviously deep in thought. Irene let him be. This couldn't be a simple thing for him to handle.

Jamie, of course, as teenagers were prone to do, fled at the first sign of someone coming to drag him back home. As soon as Arthur had convinced the loony leader of the Chelonians to let him speak to the boy, Jamie was off like a shot. "I'm not comin' with you, Arthur!" He yelled over his shoulder while fumbling into the saddle of his horse.

Irene swore nearly in sync with Arthur, rushing to mount her own horse and pursue the kid. "Just come and speak with Mary, then make up your mind!" Arthur shouted after Jamie, his tone exasperated. 

" _Leave me alone, Arthur!_ _I didn't ask for your help!_ "

Arthur growled something under his breath and jerked his chin at Irene, gesturing for her to give him space on the trail to let his horse have her head. The horse's gait lengthened into a smooth, ground-devouring gallop, and as the terrain leveled out he called, "Frank, split off, try n' stop him before the crossin'!" 

Irene nodded, clicking her tongue at Bluster and then choking up her grip on the reins to change the horse's course. Bluster almost immediately stuttered in his step, the horse fidgeting wildly as the rails parallel to him began to sing, indicating a train was approaching.

" _You ain't_ **_stupid_ ** _Jamie, you can_ **_see_ ** _this is crazy!_ " Irene heard Arthur boom at the younger man before she ducked low along Bluster's neck, the horse's mane whipping her face as she urged him from a canter to a gallop. Clinging to her hat with every inch of tenacity she had in her body, Irene flew over the embankment beside the train tracks. A gun cracked, but she didn't dare raise her head to see who was shooting. The three-thirty engine was making it's way inexorably forward, overtaking her now, and Jamie showed no signs of slowing.

" _Jamie!_ " Irene shouted. Bluster wasn't _fast_ enough, they wouldn't get there in _time-!_

The boy's horse was nearly crushed by the cowcatcher of the locomotive, narrowly avoiding disaster when he crossed the tracks directly in front of the barreling engine. Arthur reined his horse in as the train cars rattled past, and Irene heard a few choice oaths out of him that made the tips of her ears turn pink. 

Jamie had actually _dismounted_ his horse on the other side of the tracks, and continued to rant at Arthur over the sound of the train cars passing between them. "I've found somethin'--a callin'!" He insisted.

"You're just a _kid!_ " Arthur yelled in reply. "You're makin' a big mistake!"

"I'm not takin' advice from _you!_ " Jamie spat. " _You're an outlaw!_ "

Whatever else he said faded into the background to Irene. _Outlaw_. An _outlaw?_ _Arthur_ was…

Another gunshot shattered her thoughts, Jamie discharging his pistol into the air and accidentally frightening his own horse. The animal fled in a panic, leaving the young man stranded. "Leave me _alone!_ " He shouted at Arthur as the last train car vanished into the nearby tunnel.

" _Please_ , kid." Arthur implored, his hand out in a placative manner. "Put that gun down."

"I warn you, Arthur! I'm--" Jamie floundered, still not actually _aiming_ the gun at Arthur. " _I don't wanna' live anymore!_ " He cried abruptly, startling Irene with the sheer emotion in his confession. The woman all but pitched herself off her horse, then halted when she grimly realized if she got any closer Jamie would doubtlessly make a terrible choice. Her hand twitched towards the rope coiled up on her belt as she weighed her options.

Arthur seemed stunned, both hands out now as he tried to talk down the tumultuous young man. "Kid, just _calm_ -"

" _Leave me alone!_ " Jamie screamed, pressing the revolver to his own temple.

"Wait!" Irene pleaded, "Jamie, just wait!"

The boy _did_ actually hesitate for the barest split second with the gun against his head, and Arthur _somehow_ managed to get a shot off to knock the pistol out of Jamie's grip. Irene hadn't even seen him _draw_ his own gun, let alone fire! Jesus Christ, maybe he _was_ an outlaw!

Jamie staggered back a step, holding his hand. He had probably felt that impact all the way up his shoulder. Irene didn't envy the dead-limb tingle he would no doubt be dealing with shortly. 

Arthur stormed forward across the tracks, biting his words out as he scooped up Jamie's revolver, "now _calm down_. Let's go see your sister." Like he witnessed people trying to kill themselves in front of him all the time. Jamie's lower lip quivered and he flung himself at Arthur, leaving the older man to pat him awkwardly on the back while he wept. "It's okay, kid." Arthur soothed, his tone gruff but his eyes betraying the relief he felt. 

"Have I been a terrible fool, Arthur?" Jamie sniffled. 

Arthur chuckled dryly, handing the younger man back his revolver. "I dunno'. I don't know enough about it." He gestured for Irene to approach with the horses, giving her a grateful smile and a nod of thanks. "One thing I do know: there ain't no shame in lookin' for a better world."

"I missed you, Arthur." Jamie told the older man sincerely as Arthur mounted his horse. "Are you and Mary sweet on one another again?" Irene watched with a certain perverse interest as Arthur went still, then shook it off and reached down to help Jamie up behind him on his horse. 

"Ah, nah. That's all a long time ago son."

"Thanks for stoppin' me, mister. Sorry I caused you two so much trouble." Jamie apologized to Irene, his head bowed in shame.

She rode up alongside Arthur's horse, reaching out to give Jamie's hand a comforting squeeze. "I get it, Jamie. Everything is just... _hard_ , and ugly sometimes."

"A-Are you an outlaw, too?" Jamie asked shyly.

Arthur snorted derisively through his nose before Irene could reply. "Son, this man right here has moral fiber that's tougher n' a damn grizzly bear. He ain't no _outlaw_ . Frank Craft, I'd like to introduce you to the _infamous_ gunslinger Jamie Gillis."

"Aw, shut _up_ Arthur." Jamie whined, his pale face bright red. 

Irene waved off Arthur's praise, still concerned about the younger man. "What drove you to the Chelonians anyway, Jamie?"

"My father. He's…" Jamie hesitated. "He's always yellin' at me, tellin' me how I won't never amount to anythin' or be a proper man. I-I had to get away, I couldn't take it anymore!" He insisted, like he was still trying to convince himself.

Arthur sighed heavily. "Forgive me, but your father is a bully and a coward, don't listen to him."

Irene shot the older man a sidelong glance as Jamie scolded him for saying such things about his patriarch. "I wouldn't say _that_ , but maybe your father doesn't have your best interests at heart." She tried for a gentler approach. "He might be caught up in worrying about lineage or some such nonsense."

"He's _right_ though. I'm no good for anythin'." Jamie continued dejectedly. 

"Whoa there, I won't tolerate that kind of talk." Irene said, keeping her voice stern. "A lot of people in my life told _me_ I was useless, good for nothing aside from a...very specific task." She could _feel_ Arthur looking at her from under the brim of his hat. She ignored him for the moment. "But I'm not letting anyone else dig my grave _and_ usher me into it. You shouldn't either."

"I'm just so scared of bein' a disappointment." Jamie murmured. "The way he looks at me, all heated on account of me sayin' somethin' foolish…" he shook his head. 

"So learn! Engage him on his turf. My father was a doctor, you can imagine the bullshit he put me through for the sake of pretending to have a conversation." Irene encouraged, "there must be _something_ you're good at. You can certainly ride a horse damn well!"

"Arthur taught me how to ride." Jamie informed her quietly.

" _Too_ well, apparently." Arthur griped. "Frank's right though, you went like the damn hounds of Hell were after you." 

"Felt that way." Jamie shot back, making the older man smirk and reach over his shoulder to muss Jamie's hair.

"Good. Means I ain't lost my edge yet."

Jamie prattled on to Irene for the rest of the ride to the train station, seeming grateful to just have a willing ear to bend. Irene, for her part, tried to offer him what little helpful advice she _did_ have. Her own father had been overbearing, but she had also never had a chance to really get out from beneath his presence before he had passed on.

Arthur asked Irene to wait outside once they arrived and she willingly obliged, understanding that he probably wanted some time to speak with his old flame in private. So she settled down against the ramp railing and tipped her hat forward over her eyes, intent on dozing off in the sunlight. She _had_ been up pretty late last night, plus rising early that morning…

…

A boot nudging her ribs roused her and Irene yawned, accepting the hand up almost on reflex at this point. Arthur looked _terrible_ , his eyes dull in the shadow of his hat with a sadness that seemed bottomless.

"Went well, then?" Irene asked, wishing more than anything that she could simply pull him into an embrace.

Arthur cleared his throat, looking wistfully in the direction of the departing train. "As well as anyone would expect, given... _everythin'_." He answered, his voice hoarse. "I...thanks for comin' along, Frank. If you wanna' stick around I could use the company, though I won't be very good company m'self." He warned.

"I'll have to check my schedule, but I'm pretty sure I'm clear to ride with you." Irene tried to joke, gripping his shoulder in a not-hug. 

Arthur exhaled, covering her hand with his own as if to voice his thanks. "I'd just...rather not be alone right now. This time, anyway." The older man rasped. 

"You don't have to explain anything to me." Irene assured him. "I'm here if you need someone to listen, but I'm also just here."

"You're a good man, Frank Craft." Arthur choked out.

"Not nearly as good as you, Arthur Morgan."

They mounted up and Irene let him lead their path, his thoughtful silence softened by the sounds of the forest around them. It felt...companionable, instead of stoney. 

Arthur broke the quiet after a time to say, "keep an eye out for somethin' edible. Ain't gotta' be army-sized." Irene had her bow drawn before he could finish, nocking an arrow in preparation. 

"Rabbit?"

"Huh? I mean, sure, that'll-"

The bowstring sang as she let the arrow fly into the underbrush, and Irene dismounted to scoop the small animal up and retrieve her arrow.

"Shit, you're a regular quick draw on that bow." Arthur drawled, palming over his own bow that hung by his leg. "Mine's got a hell of a lot less give to it, but it'll send the arrow clear through a damn log if I haul it back enough."

"You've obviously got me _outgunned_ , if earlier with Jamie was any indication." Irene pointed out. "I didn't even _see_ you draw."

Arthur shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. "Practice." He replied tersely. "Lots and _lots_ of practice, Frank."

"I don't doubt it." She hoped she didn't sound judgemental.

They made their camp for the night atop a high, grassy mesa. Arthur set to building a fire while she skinned and quartered the rabbit, the silence back but still not overly heavy.

Irene kept her voice soft when she did speak, feeling almost as though she needed to treat Arthur like a skittish animal. His answers were monosyllabic, gruff, but not rude. Once they had eaten, he settled back on his bedroll and just stared at the fire for a good long time.

"I took in a lady bounty a few weeks ago." He remarked out of the blue. "Real oddity."

Irene looked up from where she was darning the hole in her overcoat. "Oh?" She asked, wondering privately what had brought this on. "What did she do?"

"Killed her mother. String of husbands too." Arthur shook his head, "a Frank, Henry, Howie and Willie."

"Willie?" Irene's heart tripped in her chest. "Do you...what was his last name?"

Arthur fumbled with his satchel, digging around for a moment before producing a tattered poster. He squinted at the printing. "Willie, Willie...ah! Willie Carson, apparently."

_It was him!_ Her husband's name falling from Arthur's lips sent a tremor through her body. "I knew him." Irene tried to keep her voice steady. "Whatever she did to him, he deserved it."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up and he fixed her with an incredulous look. " _Christ_ Frank, I ain't ever heard you say boo to nobody before. I gotta' know _this_ story. Bad blood between you two?"

"He was very heavy-handed with his spousal correction and discipline." Irene gritted out. "To the point where his wife was kept in the house for the sake of his _reputation_."

"Oh." Arthur's voice was a low rasp. Then, hesitantly, "you ain't gotta' sugarcoat it with me, Frank. We both know that _spousal correction_ is just a fancy way of sayin' _wife beatin_ '."

"She lived in constant fear that he would get her with his child and then, _then_ she knew her life would be over." Irene knew that she probably sounded far too angry. "The local authorities wouldn't _listen_ to me because Willie was an affluent man in the community." She snapped, hurrying to amend a second later, "I-I mean, her. Wouldn't listen to _her_." 

"At least you _tried_ to help her." Arthur pointed out, seeming to misunderstand her verbal slip-up. "Lotta' folks just accept that shit and turn a blind eye. I personally can't abide by wife-strikin'. Shit gets me heated."

"Well yes, because you're a decent man." Irene retorted. 

Arthur shrugged. "I'm too ornery. Last time I let my temper get the best of me, I beat a feller to within an inch of his life." He stared down at his hands. "I just…I can't abide that shit. Women are s'posed to be protected an' loved, _cherished_ , all that. Granted, that colorful bitch from earlier can swing for all I care, but I hate thinkin' about the kinda' life she must have had to turn out like that. In my experience, most people don't just up and kill someone. There's plannin', or somethin' that makes 'em flip their lid."

"Good riddance. To both of them." Irene huffed, making Arthur sigh.

"S'pose you're right. Ain't much use thinkin' about it. The feller's dead anyhow, and accordin' to you it weren't no great loss." He grumbled, rubbing at his eyes wearily. "But anyway, I brought it up 'cause she was talkin' the whole ride back 'bout how she was sick in the head. Needed help. She _begged_ me to bring her to an asylum instead of the jail, then she tried feedin' me some horseshit about needin' a _big strong man_ to--to keep her in line." Arthur looked aggrieved. "I ain't...I'm _not_ that kinda' man, Frank. I hope _you_ know that, at least, even if _Daddy Gillis_ never believed it. I get mad sometimes and I do stupid shit when I'm piss-drunk, but I promise I ain't that kinda' man." He clenched his fists, staring down at them. 

Irene's heart softened at the sight of him so pensive, and she put down her neglected darning. "Arthur," she called quietly to get his attention. When he looked up, she stated, "you could _never_ be like him."

Arthur appeared momentarily relieved, before a new thought seemed to strike him. "Wait, but what happened to his first wife? He married Miss Swan--"

"She just disappeared one night." The woman kept her eyes down, pretending to focus on the jacket. "Nobody knows where Irene is or what happened to her." _Hopefully_ , she added to herself.

" _Irene?_ Her name was Irene?" Arthur asked sharply.

_Shit_. "Yessir, Irene."

"What did she look like?"

"It's been ages since I saw her, Arthur. I've all but forgotten." Irene lied. "I probably wouldn't recognize her even if I _did_ see her again. If she's still alive, she must look like an entirely different person. A new woman." 

"She didn't look like the woman from last night? The fiddler? You said you spoke to her this mornin'."

**_Shit._ ** "Arthur, when I spoke to your friend this morning, I was saddling up Bluster. I wasn't really... _paying attention_ ." She mentally congratulated herself on her quick thinking, simultaneously hating how clammy her hands had grown. Why had she even decided to return to being Irene for the night?! It had been so _foolish_ . If she had known about Mary, she doubted she would have gone forward with her little scheme. A _shameless_ cry for attention with no definitive end goal. 

Had she _wanted_ Arthur to simply bed her and be done with it? _No_ , of course not. She held no love for that particular portion of married life. She had wanted…

She had wanted the attention, yes, but more than that she had wanted to feel safe as _herself_ again. Being Frank offered her a shield of deceit that, while nigh impregnable, doomed her to a solitary existence. The longer she was around someone, the more comfortable she would become and the more likely it was that she would make a grievous error.

Arthur, with his honest strength and blunt speech, had her interest from the second he hadn't taken advantage of her being caught in a trap. And the way that he had treated her last night…

_Fine ladies deserve a proper gentleman_ , he had said, the words resigned and melancholic. As if he was used to being treated poorly when it came to these matters. From what little he had mentioned of his past (orphaned at a young age, in with a bad crowd), there was no doubt in Irene's mind that he had experienced a certain amount of prejudice regardless of whether it had been truly _earned_ or not. The world could be such a cruel place.

Arthur, meanwhile, visibly deflated at her reply. "Oh. Shit, sorry. That makes sense." He mumbled, sounding crushed. "I...well, I guess a coincidence like that _would_ be pretty far-fetched."

"Why _do_ you want to track that woman so badly? I mean, there's a million other gals out there that are easier to find." Irene queried. "In Valentine alone, nevermind elsewhere." 

Arthur scoffed, " _Hell_ no, I ain't sayin' shit. You'll make fun of me!"

"About something as important as this seems to be to you? _Never!_ " Irene tried to keep her tone nonchalant. "I'm just curious is all. Don't think I've ever seen you this antsy in the admittedly-brief period of time that we've been acquainted."

"She…" Arthur hesitated, squinting at her suspiciously. "You _promise_ not to laugh?"

"Cross my heart." Irene swore, making the hand motion.

"She made me feel...I dunno', _seen_ , I guess." He admitted quietly. "I mean, I'm used to bein' a target. I'm usually the biggest feller in the room. Probably the nastiest too. But I get looked over a lot unless it's for a fight, and she...well, yeah. She saw me." He heaved out a heavy sigh. "She called me some shit that really stuck to my ribs, _brave_ and _kind_ and _loyal_ and all that. It's...it _hurts_ , hearin' that stuff if you haven't heard it from another woman. Makes you feel like your insides was carved out. And she didn't know me from Job, but it was like she _knew_ that was what I needed to hear."

"Oh." Irene's heart ached. _I would say those things to you every damn_ **_day_ ** _if I could, Arthur_ . "Well, they're true! I'm glad she told you that." She said cheerily. "You've been a very good friend to me, after all, and every time I bump into you it seems like you're doing _something_ for someone else."

"Eeyup, I'm a regular errand boy." Arthur replied ruefully. He clapped his hands together after a moment, nodding to the fiddle case that was propped up on a nearby log. "Hey, how about a song? If you ain't too beat."

"Of course! It would be my honor to play for you, Mister Arthur." Irene answered grandly, giving him a lavish bow. He waved off the gesture, finally blessing her with a grin. It didn't take her long to tune the old Hyde and she got to her feet, folding her bandanna to tuck between the instrument and her chin. "Any requests?" She quipped.

Arthur shook his head and she hummed softly, drawing the bow downwards a few times to spread and warm up the coat of rosin. 

She stuck to some familiar songs at first, moving her whole body in time to _Sir Roger de Coverley_ and whistling to _Rye Whiskey_. Arthur's spirits seemed to be improving, the man eventually nodding along with the music and humming baritone notes. The moon rose overhead and she played on, making it up as she went. 

Irene wasn't sure what came over her. Maybe it was the huge sky full of stars, or the way Arthur's eyes had warmed once more...maybe it was simply the audience of one. But she felt a surge of courage race through her body, tinged faintly with longing. She wanted to _sing_. Even though it might expose her for who she was.

A quick draw across the strings, a little flair to show off, and then she opened her mouth. " _I wish I could play the violin_ ," Irene sang, her voice rasping a little as she struggled to keep up the facade of timbre. " _I'd play 'til tears roll down your cheek and chin. And if you sang along, we could write the saddest song_." 

Arthur settled back against the log he had rolled next to the fire, his body stilling as he listened to her voice.

" _Sometimes I indulge my every whim, and piece by piece I build the cell I'm in_ ." Irene continued, gesturing at Arthur with the bow and smiling when he laughed ruefully. " _But I only stay here long, enough to write the saddest song_." 

The heel of her boot hit the ground rhythmically, keeping time with the tune she played. 

" _I dreamt I stood on a hill, that I wished was a mountain, to look back on all my accomplishments. Well they must have been small, because I couldn't seem to find them, so I took a leap off of a precipice_."

"Christ, you tryin' to tell me somethin'?" Arthur teased, "don't do anythin' foolish, Frank!"

Irene stuck her tongue out at him, feeling triumphant over his joviality. " _I wish I could play piano well...I'd hit the keys that make your spirit swell! And if you sang along, we could write the saddest song._ " She noticed that Arthur _was_ actually humming along when she repeated the chorus, and that gave her an idea. "Alright, this next part I'll sing first, and then we can do it together!" She urged, grinning when he grumbled. "C'mon, don't be a spoilsport!" The young woman cajoled, showing off a bit on the strings as she shifted her weight back and forth.

"Oh, _fine_ , I guess." Arthur agreed reluctantly. "I ain't much for singin' though, so you brought this on yourself."

" _Whatever the cost, whether it works out or not_ ," Irene sang, " _whatever the cost, whether it works out or not, I'll follow you, I'll follow you, I'll follow you with my heart_." She inclined her head at Arthur, encouraging him to join in.

The man was tentative, his voice so deep she could barely hear him when he _did_ humor her. " _Whatever the cost, whether it works out or not_ …"

" _Whatever the cost, whether it works out or not_ …" Irene stayed silent for the last portion of the bridge, listening to Arthur as he appeared to finally loosen back up.

" _I'll follow you, I'll follow you, I'll follow you with my heart_." He drawled with a pleased little smile, like he was proud of himself.

" _I dreamt I stood on a hill, that I wished was a mountain, to look back on all my accomplishments. Well they must have been small, because I couldn't seem to find them, so I took a leap off of a precipice_ ." One last indulgent bar on the strings, a high note and then she swept into a deep bow, laughing as Arthur whistled and clapped. "Yes, thank you, thank you, my _adoring_ public." Irene waved him off dramatically, still chuckling as she plopped back down on the ground alongside him. 

"Hell, I can't believe you ain't on a stage somewhere makin' honest money right now." Arthur praised, making her blush. "You're damn good, Frank!"

"Oh I'm not _nearly_ good enough for all that." Irene protested bashfully. "I haven't practiced in ages, so I'm rusty." She picked at a mended area on her pants, unable to fight back her smile. "I'm pretty mediocre."

"You don't get it." Arthur rebuffed her bluntly. "It don't _matter_ whether you're good at it or not, Frank. You _like_ doin' it. A blind feller coulda' seen that. You were havin' a good time. Perked me right up to see you just jauntin' to your tunes, singin' prettier than a choir boy," he grinned. "You're somethin' else, Frank Craft."

"And you're far too kind, Arthur Morgan." Irene hesitated, the question on the tip of her tongue. "Hey Arthur, what Jamie said earlier..." She saw Arthur straighten up out of the corner of her vision. "About you uh, being an outlaw and all. Was that true, or was he just being spiteful?"

"Would you think less of me if it _were_ true, Frank?" Arthur asked her instead of answering, his voice gone gravelly. His eyes watched her intently from beneath the brim of his hat, the blue glowing nearly green in the yellow light from the fire.

Irene hesitated, chewing her lower lip as she deliberated on her reply. On the one hand, she was in a very isolated area with a man who may or may not be an outlaw, and who may or may not be desperate to keep that a secret. 

But on the other hand, good people did bad things every day. She was certain that the rabbit she had caught didn't think her particularly merciful or just. And there _were_ tales about people who were wrongly accused, imprisoned or punished. Maybe…

"I don't think I would, Mister Arthur." She answered him truthfully. "If you _are_ an outlaw, you must not be a very good one."

Arthur startled her by _roaring_ with laughter, the man bent nearly double. "Truer words ain't never been spoken, Frank." He finally panted out, still chuckling. "You don't know the _half_ of it."

Irene scowled. "Hey, c'mon! I'm being serious!" She protested. 

"So am I. If I don't go down in history as the worst outlaw _ever_ , I'll be sorely disappointed in myself." He grinned, but it soon faded. "Before she left, Mary...she said I'd never change." He murmured, posture folded in on himself once more. "I guess she was right. Worst outlaw this side of Saint Denis."

"Well, it may be more beneficial to her if you _don't_ change." Irene reasoned, her tone probably a _bit_ too pointed. 

"How d'you figure?" Arthur asked in confusion.

" _Arthur_ , c'mon. You said it yourself earlier today! She popped out of nowhere with a problem for you to solve!"

"Well, yeah, but ain't you said it was _admirable_ that I was helpin' her?" Arthur challenged, seating his hat further back on the crown of his head.

"Oh _absolutely!_ Don't get me wrong, Arthur. What you did was a very good thing. But from where I'm sitting, it looked a lot less like someone asking for your help and more like someone _expecting_ something from you because they know how to manipulate your nature." Irene lowered her voice, dropping her eyes to stare at the dirt her boots were methodically scuffing up. "It just...seemed like she was taking advantage of your kindness, that's all."

"She's always played me for the fool, Frank." Arthur said gently. "It wouldn't work if there weren't some truth behind it, I reckon."

"It's _wrong_ , though!" Irene retorted hotly.

"Well, maybe." Arthur allowed. "But if I didn't help her, I doubt anyone else would." His sigh sounded like it came from the bedrock. "Even if I am bein' toyed with, I...I think it's okay, y'know? As long as I can help, it don't matter what a person's intents are, I s'pose."

"I take back what I said." Irene grumbled. "You're not a _kind_ man, Arthur Morgan, you're quite possibly the _kindest_ man. Making my life damn _difficult_."

His warm laughter in reply was the best sound she had heard out of him yet, only intensifying when she continued to grouse and complain good-naturedly about his _Samaritan_ habits.

Irene eventually got back to her feet, mischief on her mind as she listened to the wolves howl to each other. The violin sang out again, this time mimicking their long, mournful calls. "Beautiful, aren't they?" She said after a few moments. "They always sound so lonely."

"Sure." Arthur drawled. "But you know as well as I do that there's probably sixty of the bastards all together, yellin' n' carryin' on. If there's one thing most wolves _ain't_ lackin' in, it's company." He pointed out. "Them and the damn coyotes."

Irene carried on imitating the howls, tweaking the pitch and draw by ear as she went. "I think I'd like being a wolf."

Arthur chuckled, "is that so, Mister Frank?"

"Yep. Get to yell at the moon all the time, rip things apart, enjoy pleasant company…" Irene shrugged. "What's not to like?"

"Frank, I'll let you in on a trade secret." Arthur actually made the effort of leaning forward, propping himself up with a hand on his knee like he was sincerely about to impart some age-old wisdom. "You can yell at the moon any damn time you please out here."

" _What?_ Will the wonders never cease?" Irene gasped playfully. "Truly this _is_ God's country."

"You tellin' me you ain't never acted on them _primal_ urges?" Arthur's grin was slow, but no less devastating for it. Irene was hard-pressed to tear her eyes away. "Ain't no way our forefathers ain't howled at the moon, Frank." He spat into the fire and then rose to his full height, rolling out his shoulders once he stood. "C'mon, I'll go first."

"You'll go-?" Irene didn't have the chance to finish her question as Arthur swept the hat off his head, tilted back and unleashed an extended, _rumbling_ howl. The far-off wolf pack set to yapping and cacophony, then a few of them seemed to howl back in reply. Irene actually _giggled_ , struggling to stifle the feminine noise. 

"Alright, your turn." Arthur said, cocking his head at her. "Don't be shy." He teased, giving her a heavy pat on the shoulder. "It's gotta' come from your belly. They can tell the difference if it don't."

Irene gulped. If someone had told her on the night she left her husband's house (well, _late husband's_ house, she realized with a rush of guilty relief) that she would one day find herself on a bluff alongside a potential outlaw, hesitating while said potential outlaw cajoled her into acting on some wild, juvenile urges, she would have laughed them out of the room.

Now, though?

She raised her face to the moon, cupped her hands around her mouth and offered her piercing, lonesome howl to whatever deity might be listening.

…

It had been almost a month since the two of them had parted ways, Arthur looking _significantly_ more lighthearted and whistling as he waved farewell.

Now well into summer, it seemed like a thunderstorm happened every single afternoon. One such tempest had been hovering on the horizon for hours now, the air humid and sticky and frankly, Irene had had _enough_.

Bluster shook himself off like a dog, whickering at her when she swung into the saddle and wiped the sweat from her brow. "Shush." Irene grumbled, directing him off the beaten path to a small deer track. With any luck, she would find a watering hole where she could give herself and her clothes a quick rinse and then dry in peace. _Anything_ to combat this unbearable heat!

Fifteen minutes at a brisk trot brought her to a clear spring, deep in the woods and all but hidden by a thick carpet of ferns and moss. Irene dismounted with a sigh of relief, leading Bluster to the edge so he could get a drink while she built her fire. She kept it small, not wanting to draw extra attention while she was in a vulnerable state.

The water was _freezing_ , but after the heat of the day and the stickiness of her clothes, she welcomed the bracing chill on her bare skin. Rinsing her gear was a simple enough affair. She spread her clothes out on some bushes to dry and then settled back to relax a little in the water, trusting Bluster to alert her to any suspicious activity. 

So of _course_ , today was the day that she didn't secure Bluster and he ended up wandering off as she dozed in the sun-dappled water. 

The woman was jerked awake when she heard a booming voice yell, "Frank! I found yer horse, the cowardly little shit. Hey! _Frank_ , where are you?" It was _Arthur_ . Because of _course_ it was. Irene cursed her luck even as she spotted the man approaching through the trees, leading Bluster and his own horse between the dense trunks. "Frank! You here?" Arthur called, sounding a bit more concerned now.

She debated going under the surface and just letting herself drown before she hurriedly ducked behind the lone, half-submerged rock that graced the spring. Her attempts to hide would prove futile however, as Arthur tied up Bluster and then sauntered down to the spring with his docile mare in tow, presumably so she could drink her fill.

The large man knelt, observing the now-dead fire and footprints that Irene had left and then he shrugged, moving forward to the small pond to splash some water on his face. As he straightened back up though, he caught sight of her and jumped about a foot, flinching back with a curse like he had been burned. Irene felt her face heat while she watched his eyes travel down what little of her body _was_ visible before he quickly tore them away. "I... _Irene?_ " Arthur asked incredulously. "What are you...why are you out here with Frank's…" he paused, his brow furrowing. "Are you two--I mean, i-it ain't none of my business I s'pose, but...I mean I..." His voice trailed off and Irene wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. This was probably the singular most _embarrassing_ moment of her life.

"Arthur, there is...something Frank's been keeping from you." She began evenly. The look of absolute _betrayal_ on his face gave her pause, but she soldiered on doggedly, "I suppose it's something _I_ was keeping from you as well."

" _Stop_ . Don't you dare, I... _shit_ woman, I thought you were _different_." Arthur hissed, his grip tightening on his horse's reins. "How many times do I have to make a damn fool of myself?"

" _Please_ , let me explain." Irene implored, swimming over to the edge of the pool. "This is a little more complicated than you realize, I promise."

"Oh _shoah_ ." Arthur drawled sarcastically, turning his body and keeping his eyes fixed on a point across the small spring as if to afford her some vague semblance of privacy when she climbed out of the water. "Make it real _simple-like_ for me, Miss Irene. You know I'm a little soft in the head." Irene tried to walk past him to where she had laid her clothes out to dry but Arthur caught her wrist, the man still refusing to look at her. "I'll ask for this much honesty, ma'am. Was you two already _involved_ back in Valentine?" He growled.

Irene narrowed her eyes and slipped her hand beneath his chin, forcing him to turn his head. He still wouldn't truly _look_ at her, glaring off to the side. "Arthur, I _am_ Frank." Her voice trembled slightly as she said the words, feeling like she was signing her own death warrant. She had gotten _used_ to this life.

"You think this is some kinda' _joke_ , woman?" Arthur snapped harshly, "if there's one thing you _clearly_ ain't, i-it's a man!" He made a vague up and down gesture, his jaw set firmly as he locked his gaze over her shoulder somewhere.

"It's _me_ , Arthur. Frank and Irene are the same person." She insisted, her other hand coming up so she could cradle his jaw. God, how many times had she dreamed about touching him like this? "It's me." She murmured, her thumbs grazing the deep scarring on his chin. 

Arthur's arm flew up and he pawed at the back of her neck, his fingers roughly raking through her wet hair until he appeared to find what he sought. The divot from when she had hit her head, the one he had _personally_ seen to. His eyes finally met her own and he swallowed hard. "But...B-But…" Arthur stammered, brows drawn low and tight. "Frank was…"

"I didn't want to get hurt, Arthur. I was a lone woman making her way in a hard world." She took a deep breath. "I am...I'm so sorry for lying to you. I know you've been hurt before and...I _never_ wanted to hurt you, Arthur. But I _also_ didn't want to be hurt anymore. I had to keep myself safe."

"That stuff you said, 'bout Willie Carson and his _spousal disciplin'?_ You and that Irene, you're the same person, ain't you?" Arthur snarled.

"Yes." 

Arthur swore under his breath. In a surprising twist, he dragged her nude form against his chest, embracing her tightly. "I'm so sorry, Irene." He breathed into her hair. Irene relaxed in his arms after going momentarily stiff out of fear, her hands gripping his shirt. "You could have _told_ me. I wouldn't...I mean, _hell_."

"I wasn't _sure_ , Arthur. I've been so afraid."

"Of...of me?"

" _No_ , Lord no! Of practically everyone _aside_ from you." Irene assured him. "You've been nothing but kind and gracious to me since our first meeting, Arthur."

"I've _spit_ in front of you, Miss Irene." Arthur sounded mortified. "I've...shit, I've talked _real_ rough around you too. I am--I'm sorry, ma'am." He apologized, his shoulders drooped. 

"Arthur, you believed I was a man. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"You must think I'm a real fool, not noticin' what you was from the start." Arthur mumbled. "I mean you...you're just _lovely_ , an'..."

"I dressed like a man, talked like a man and _lived_ like a man, Arthur. I got very good at doing what I needed to in order to keep my secret." Irene tried to crack a joke, "all it _really_ takes is some dirt and a hat. The rest just fell into place."

"Oh, I'll bet." Arthur grunted, releasing her and covering his eyes with his hand. "Now put your gear on, chrissakes. I ain't in the habit of bein' a pervert."

"Nothing is dry yet!" Irene protested, wrapping her arms around herself as she mourned the loss of his body heat. "I had to wash everything, it was revolting."

Arthur groaned and turned to dig through his saddlebags, coming up with a shirt that might have been white once. "Here, put _this_ on at least. I ain't got any underthin's for you, but it's better n' nothin'."

"Maybe I prefer being naked." Irene said haughtily even as she accepted the long-sleeved undershirt. 

Arthur huffed out an exasperated breath. "Trust me, _I_ prefer you that way too," he fired back. "But I'd like the whole damn story and I know I ain't gonna' get it if I'm _distracted_ on account of you bein' buckass."

"Arthur Morgan, you flatterer!" Irene laughed, struggling into the large shirt while he grumbled to himself. It grazed her knees, _hardly_ decent, but as long as she paid attention she doubted she would risk exposing herself all over again. "Alright, I'm clothed. Or...whatever you might consider _this_ to be."

Arthur motioned for her to sit down beside the smoldering embers of her fire, and he took up his own position across from her. It was as if he was deliberately keeping something between them. Irene's heart tripped when she realized that it was possible he was doing it for the sake of _her_ comfort. Maybe he feared he had already misstepped with the hug? 

"I promise I'm not scared of _you_ , Arthur." She reiterated with a smile.

"I know," he muttered in reply. "Just...tell me the whole bit, okay? Don't skimp."

"You...are you sure?" Irene asked softly. "There's a lot to tell."

"I'm countin' on it, passin' the time while your kit dries out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The song Irene was playing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ziKw947MWGQ ]


	3. More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains unprotected sex, historical inaccuracies and allusions to previous abuse. Stay safe!]

If he had so glibly dubbed Linton perishing of pneumonia as _bad business_ , he dreaded to come up with a term for whatever Irene had gone through. _Christ_ , spousal discipline. A victim of the so-called 'gentlemen' that brought their wives to heel with the rod, coverture at its goddamn _finest_ . It had always made Arthur's chest tight, made him see red, had him raring to give them a taste of their own medicine despite Dutch's constant preaching about _an eye for an eye only makes the world blind_.

Womenfolk, for all Arthur's troubles with one in particular, deserved to be seen and heard as much as anyone else. Shit, from a _biblical_ standpoint they were supposed to be _cherished_ , protected, _defended_ if they needed it. Arthur was not a pious man by any stretch; the blood on his hands had him _thoroughly_ convinced of his prime spot in Hell come Judgement Day. But if he needed to resort to thumping the good book to get his point across, he damn well would. Fine gentlemen may not fear overmuch the wrath of one Arthur Morgan, yet they certainly feared for the salvation of their wretched, _mealy_ little souls.

Irene's brown eyes were dark and surprisingly dry as she watched him watch her, the tales she told painting the late Mr. Carson as no man, but a _fiend_ in man's clothing. 

Arthur felt a lump form in his throat when she spoke of selling off her damn _hair_ just so she could get free of that bastard. It was clear that after what she had suffered, nearly dying on the side of a mountain was a veritable _paradise_. She'd had to learn everything the hard way, taking all that she had read about and painstakingly putting it into practice. That she was still alive was a goddamn miracle. A miracle that Arthur didn't feel like testing the charity of. Providence had kept her safe thus far, but just how damn long did she expect that to hold? 

What if someone _else_ had found her in that trap? What if he _hadn't_ been hunting that bear? Hell, what if one of those boys from Lemoyne had come across her bathing today? Arthur gritted his teeth. Granted, she wasn't _defenseless_ , not by a long shot, but lone wolves didn't tend to last out in the wilds. It had been sheer coincidence that nothing far worse had happened.

"Come back to camp with me." He interrupted her to offer, his voice rough. "I...me an' the gang, we can keep you safe there. You ain't gotta' live like this anymore, that feller's _dead_. He can't come to drag you back to that...misery."

She shook her head, her smile sad. "I've been on my own for too long, Arthur. I'm used to it."

" _Please_ ." He begged. "I don't...if... _look_ , I...I don't want you to…" he trailed off, frustrated by his inability to articulate the confusing emotions roiling in his chest. "Hell, I dunno'." He muttered, shoving the toe of his boot into the dirt. "Scared for you, I guess."

"I've made it this far, haven't I?"

"What if it wasn't me?" He retorted. "What if every time, it was-"

"It _was_ you, though." Irene interjected softly. "I won't deny that our paths crossing again and again seems like fate, or divine intervention."

Arthur huffed out a breath. "I _s'pose_ , but-"

"You needed someone to listen, and I needed someone to show me kindness."

"Well sure, but-"

"If you had bedded me in Valentine, would that have satisfied your curiosity?" Irene inquired primly. "Nipped your fascination in the bud?"

" _Shit_ , no." Arthur finally managed to get a word in edgewise, shaking his head. "I...you seemed real sweet. Pretty. Sad, in a secret way. I wanted...but then you said all those things and I...I ain't never met a woman that seemed to _see_ me like how you did, Miss Irene. Most folks just see what they can get outta' me."

"I _always_ saw you, Arthur. From the first time we met on the side of that mountain." Irene told him, her voice gone soft once more. "I saw your smile, and your beautiful eyes, and the way you were willing to help. It made me want to help you too."

"M- _My--?_ Shucks, ma'am, I ain't...I mean my eyes is...uh." Arthur yanked at the collar of his shirt. Despite it being unbuttoned, he suddenly felt as though it was too tight. "Well, you're one to talk about beautiful eyes!" He blustered, feeling his gut twist when she looked _surprised_ of all things. "What, ain't anyone ever said somethin' nice to you before? You got nice eyes! And a good heart! Smart words, too, you're _intelligent!_ Shit--I mean, _shoot_ , sorry, ain't tryin' to swear in front of you." He rushed to apologize, worrying at the brim of his hat. "I'm just off-balance is all, ma'am, forgive me."

She waved off his apology, laughing. "Don't be so uptight, Arthur! It's still me."

"But it _ain't_ , that's the thing. I…" he paused yet again, fumbling in his satchel for his journal. "I-I haven't stopped thinkin' of you, Miss Irene. What I'd say if I ever ran into you again." Opening the book to the first sketch of her, he turned it around so she could see. "I never came up with anythin', though. Aside from 'thank you'."

Instead of staying where she was, she approached and sat down alongside him. Those fingers, just as reverential as the first time 'Frank' had seen his sketches, ran down the lines of her face on the page.

They weren't perfect. His memory of her had been blurry with drink and many of his sketches had been scribbled out or erased into gray smudges in frustration. "They're beautiful." She whispered.

"No, _you're_ beautiful." Arthur murmured before he could think better of it. "Nothin' that I could make would ever do you justice, Miss Irene."

She was flushed already from the fire, her hair slowly drying into a wild mess of sun-streaked curls that he longed to run his fingers through. "I wouldn't say _that_." She tried to deflect his words, smiling shyly down at her hands.

She had been _married_ . Her acting like what he was doing was something _new_ had Arthur damn near distressed. He cupped her chin with his hand, keeping his touch as light as he could bear while he tipped her face up to look at him. "I would."

"You would?" Her tongue darted out to soothe her dry lips, stirring a half-forgotten memory in his mind of her making some _sound_ into his mouth as he kissed her. 

"I sure would." He drawled, tilting his head and lowering his mouth to hers. The little _whimper_ that came out of her settled in his abdomen. Was this a bad idea? _Probably_. "Take the shirt off."

" _You_ told me to put it on!" 

"And now, I'm _askin'_ you to take it off." Arthur growled, pressing his mouth against the shell of her ear and breathing, " _please_."

Irene shivered all over, clinging to his hands like she was trying to keep her composure. Lord knew Arthur's own composure had never been particularly _ironclad_. She finally released him, her fingers trembling when she reached for the hem of the shirt.

" _Easy_ girl, only if you want to." Arthur pressed a kiss to her cheek, "only if you're willin'. I ain't so brash to believe that you bein' alright with this one time before means that you'd be okay with it now."

"You…" Irene hesitated. "I've never been allowed to say no, Arthur."

Oh _, Jesus_ , that hurt. "Well now you can. Any time. Right now, in the middle, whenever." He forced the words out past his muted, secondhand horror. "I'll stop. I'm not...this ain't about somebody gettin' _hurt_ , okay? This is...I'm tryin' to make you feel good. That's all I want."

Irene squinted up at him, her disbelief evident. "So...it _can_ be good? That's not just something they put in the books so women don't decide to never get bedded?"

_Oh_ _Jesus_. "Oh, Jesus." Arthur scrubbed helplessly over his stubble with one hand, trying to formulate a response that wouldn't come off as terrifying or _lecherous_. "So, you...b-but you was _married_." He floundered. 

"Yes?" 

"He ain't...I mean you never-?"

"I have never been kissed like you kissed me before, if that answers your question."

"Well, yes and no. I-I reckon yes." Arthur stammered. "Alright, let me...I'll pitch my tent and we'll have a lie down and I'll...I-I guess I'll do my damnedest."

_Jesus_ , he needed a minute. Just a momentary reprieve while he fumbled to unlash the canvas from Chase's back. _Christ_ , his mind was going like Hell's wheels. She had never known pleasure from lying with a man. _Never_ . To the point where she thought it was _fabricated_ . One more nail in that devil's coffin, he supposed. _Lord_ , Arthur prayed he was up for this. 

She wanted to help him set up the tent and Arthur had to laugh, his nerves easing a bit at the petulant way she demanded to hold the guylines taut for him. "It's ungentlemanly for me to expect you to help out with stuff like this," he tried to explain.

"If you start pulling some nonsense about how I'm a delicate flower, you _will_ regret it." Irene informed him firmly. "I haven't gotten this far to be treated like glass, Mister Arthur."

"Well, you _certainly_ wasn't protestin' that treatment in Valentine." He chuckled, watching her face go bright red.

"I-I was caught off-guard, that's all! Fell back into old habits!" 

"Oh _shoah_." He shrugged, still grinning. Thunder rumbled in the distance and he quickly opened up the tent flap with a broad, sweeping bow. "After you, ma'am."

She smiled at him and Arthur was hard-pressed to think of a prettier sight than that, the woman sidling past him to enter the tent after she had gathered up her still-damp things. 

Arthur Morgan did not consider himself a good man. He did not consider himself a particularly _smart_ man either. But every once in a while even _his_ life could pan out with gratifying and _interesting_ results. Such as an attractive woman who had been masquerading as an attractive man ending up in his tent, waiting on him to show her the... _primitive ecstasies_ of the flesh. 

He took his time before joining her however, choosing instead to smoke a cigarette and scan the perimeter of the grove, an idle hand on his revolver. 

He definitely wasn't stalling. Definitely wasn't trying to compose himself before he got out of pocket with her. But _Jesus_ , what he would love to do if she was willing! 

The sunlight began to wane as the clouds rolled in and Arthur stubbed out his cigarette, carefully saving the remainder for later. No telling when he'd get his hands on a fresh pack, and the last chew he'd indulged in had been so strong it nearly burned a hole in his lower lip. Better to stick to the sticks.

He entered the tent to find Irene sitting cross-legged on her bedroll, still in his shirt (and _Lord_ , that was a whole other article that he needed to address about himself), and she looked up at him expectantly as he ducked his head so he didn't bump the side of the tent. "Was just makin' sure everythin' is safe, Miss Irene." He explained, tying the tent flaps together. Arthur then began the process of unbuckling his holster belt, carefully hanging it from the support by the door. He had only stayed alive this long because Hosea had taught him to always have a revolver within reach. "You nervous?" He asked conversationally while he dropped his hat by the door.

"Perhaps a bit." Irene replied, her truthful words giving him pause. "I am optimistic, however."

"I ain't gonna' hurt you, but you need to be honest with me, okay? Won't hurt my feelin's none if you tell me you don't like somethin'." Arthur assured her, "I can adapt."

"Thank you, Arthur."

Oh _Jesus_ , there it was again. Like a hot brick in his stomach, an intoxicating combination of wariness and arousal. He knelt beside her, tangling his fingers greedily through her short, _thick_ curls. He could feel her trembling slightly, which was...sobering. "Ain't gonna' hurt you." He soothed, making a shushing noise. "Ain't gonna' hurt you. You're okay."

Wide brown eyes stared up at him and Irene nodded slowly.

"You trust me, Miss Irene?" Arthur asked quietly. 

Another nod.

"Good." Arthur cupped her face and crushed their mouths together without further ceremony. She gasped into his mouth, her hands finding purchase on his chest where she proceeded to _cling_ to him. He only vaguely remembered how she had reacted to his kiss before, her body threatening to collapse against his own in that cramped little garret that the Saints Hotel considered a rentable room. 

"Arthur," she breathed shakily, kissing him at an almost fevered speed. "Is this really how it's supposed to be?" 

"Is it good?"

"Oh _yes_ , so good, I-"

"That's the important part sorted, then. Rest'll take care of itself." Arthur nibbled on her lower lip, his teeth gentle in case she needed to pull away. If anything though, she pressed _closer_. He was pleasantly surprised when she timidly slipped him her tongue, illustrating his enthusiastic approval by welcoming it with his own. "Can I touch you?" He gasped against her lips, his forehead resting on her own. They were fully in each other's space now, but he knew that could change in an instant. 

"Please, please." Irene begged, clutching his hands.

"Can I take off the shirt? Can I see you?" was his next question, loaded as it was. 

"I…" Irene paused. "I don't know if...you'd want to, honestly."

"Oh believe me, I _want_." Arthur insisted. "If you want, I want." 

"Just like that?"

"Don't need to be any more complicated than that, ma'am." Arthur kept his hands still. "Just a little heavy pettin' even, if that's all you're lookin' for. But I can make you feel real good."

"Heavy petting?" Her brow furrowed. "I'm...unfamiliar, Mister Arthur."

"Yeah, y'know, heavy pettin'. You kinda' just...I mean you uh. Touch. A lot. Usually." He struggled to explain, again finding himself walking the line of trying not to scare her while still giving her the information she sought. "Demonstration? I ain't so good at this." He finally suggested ruefully.

Irene nodded and Arthur drew his index fingers over her collarbone, framing it briefly before he slipped further down. Slowly, so as not to frighten her, he cupped her breasts through the undershirt, letting their weight rest in his palms.

He had to clear his throat before he spoke next. "Okay?" Irene nodded, her expression almost laughably serious. "I'm gonna' move my thumbs now. Just gentle, no pinchin'." Arthur informed her. "You let me know if that's okay."

"Mmhm." She inhaled sharply the _second_ he grazed over her nipples, a little hiccup leaving her. Arthur had never encountered _that_ particular reaction and he lingered in the same spot, swiping his thumbs back and forth across the soft mounds of her breasts. He felt her body begin to react, her nipples waking underneath his touch. 

"Okay?" He rasped, his throat dry all of a sudden. Irene looked... _drowsy_ , almost, the woman biting her lower lip and just watching his hands move. 

"Feels good." She whispered. "I...I think I like it?"

"You ain't sure yet? Want me to stop?"

Arthur barely got the question out before she said, " _no!_ ", flushing immediately afterwards. "I-I mean no, please...please keep going?" She requested, not meeting his eyes. 

He chuckled, "okay then. Just relax. I've got you, Miss Irene." Her hands fumbled for purchase on his suspenders and Arthur was delighted when she shoved them off over his shoulders, the woman whimpering as he removed his hands from her briefly to slip out of the loops. "Shh, I'm right here." Arthur murmured, returning to his previous ministrations.

"I don't know what to do." Irene breathed, resting her forehead on his shoulder. "What do I do, Arthur? Can't j-just--" her voice hitched, fingers digging into his upper arms as he continued to gently stroke her. "Sit here, not _doing_ anything."

"Lemme' take care of you for a l'il bit, okay?" The older man offered softly. At his insistence, she laid back, propping herself up on her elbows and then gifting him a tender little cry when he dipped his head to mouth and tease at one of her nipples through the shirt's thin fabric. 

Rain began to patter on the tent's canvas roofing, dulling the sounds of the surrounding woodlands. It was like a curtain being drawn, shielding Arthur from the outside and narrowing his world down to nothing but the woman currently arching her entire _body_ up in search of his mouth. Irene reached for him blindly, her hands so delicate in his own when he laced their fingers together and pressed his lips back to her breast through the shirt's material.

She writhed beneath him, little noises of desperation issuing from her without much preamble. It was as if she was starved for touch. In a way, Arthur supposed dimly, they both were. Her guarding her secret, trying her hardest to be cautious and he keeping his _own_ secrets, trying to work around the blatant duality of his existence. 

_We're thieves in a world that don't want us no more_. 

But here, here, in this sheltered glade, the two of them might find a moment of reprieve. A haven.

Irene grasped at the hem of the shirt, going to tug it over her head and _immediately_ getting stuck because she hadn't unbuttoned it first. The woman thrashed, nearly elbowing Arthur in the face, and he couldn't help the way his laughter exploded out of him. " _Whoa_ there! Easy, hold on." He said, lending her a hand to unbutton the shirt from the inside so she could get it over her head safely.

She was breathless from giggling by the time they managed to free her from the shirt's clutches, and Arthur _had_ to kiss her again. Tentatively her hands traveled up the back of his neck and found their way to his shaggy hair. She tugged, making him rumble into her mouth. "You wanted to see me?" Irene asked shyly, and Arthur realized she was trying to display some sort of willingness. 

"If it's alright, ma'am, I would." He murmured, keeping his eyes on hers. She nodded and Arthur gave her a gentle peck on the lips before drawing back, settling onto his knees so he could really take in the sight. 

Outside he had done his best not to ogle. Which had been _incredibly_ difficult. But Arthur Morgan wasn't some skin-hungry yearling, and he could usually determine when to avert his eyes. 

In the twilight of the tent she was a damn _vision_ . He reached out and cupped the back of her calf, palming the curve of the muscle that lurked beneath the skin when he moved her leg to open her up just a bit. She was _strong_ , forged of stubborn steel. His eyes traveled up, lingering on the thatch of dark curls at the apex of her thighs. Further up to her breasts, pebbled with gooseflesh and no doubt still feeling the echoes of his mouth. Her collarbone had been so delicate under his hands, like some fanciful artisan's filigree. That throat, _Lord_ , to tarry there and cover her skin with reminders of him would be _heaven_ -! His eyes shifted to her freckled shoulders, the area littered with old scars. Arthur had the sneaking suspicion that her back would have borne the brunt of what she had gone through.

He wished he could stop time itself and sketch her just like this.

"You're beautiful." He mumbled, only half-aware that he was even speaking. Irene squirmed, covering her face, but Arthur gently caught one of her hands and tugged it away. "Irene, you're _beautiful_." He repeated, a little louder.

"You...you don't _mean_ that, Arthur." She replied weakly. 

"Oh _yes_ I do, ma'am." He insisted, her pulse thundering against his lips when he kissed the inside of her wrist. "Can I… _may_ I?" 

Irene nodded rapidly, her head falling back when Arthur spread her legs. He abruptly felt like a starving man at a banquet table. Her cunt was flushed pink, _honest_ , glistening with the slick of her arousal. Her thighs trembled against his forearms. 

_Jesus_. 

Arthur rubbed a palm across his face, trying to judge whether his stubble might be a bit too _aggressive_ for the obviously sensitive area. "Hey, I…I'm gonna' try somethin', okay? You let me know if…" he trailed off when he looked up and saw her with her arm over her eyes, hiding from him again. Her cheeks were ruddy, whether from embarrassment or excitement he was uncertain. "Irene? Look at me." He implored, reaching out to tip her chin down. "You're okay, it's okay."

She hesitantly put her arm down, biting her lip. "Nervous," was all she said.

"You want me to stop?" Arthur asked, hating the way she still looked surprised. "I _will_ stop."

"No, I just...I'm not used to it being so…" Irene paused, clearly searching for the correct word. "Gentle."

Arthur groaned, "you're killin' me woman. Tell me if you ain't likin' what I'm doin'." He sank down between her legs, urging her up a little on the bedroll so he could lay on his belly. _Jesus_ , he was lost. She was shaking under his touch, quivering just from his kisses on her inner thighs. Arthur continued to make soft noises in his throat, trying to keep her calm as he worked his way higher. 

"A-Arthur?" Her voice broke, questioning. "Arthur, that's my-"

"Sure is." Arthur replied, already drunk on the clean, delicious scent of her. "I'm gonna' just...have a little taste."

He was slow, careful, like he was out stalking prey in the grasslands. Soft kisses that made their way relentlessly inward to his prize until finally, he parted her lower lips with his thumbs and lapped at the nectar that seeped forth. Irene flinched, obviously startled by his _mouth_ on her, and her hands flew to his hair. Arthur waited for a beat, and then cautiously continued tonguing at her. "This--this cannot be proper, Mister Mor- _gan_ \--" Irene tried to reason, her voice gone reedy. "What if-"

"You _just_ washed yourself, ma'am." Arthur drawled from between her thighs, rubbing his stubbled cheek against the inside of her leg teasingly. "Ain't nothin' else that concerns me if you're likin' it."

"I...oh, Lord, I can't _think_ ." Was her shaky response. "Wh-What are you _doing_ to me, Arthur?"

"Showin' you how the worst outlaw this side of Saint Denis pleases a woman." He growled, the words hanging heated and sharp as a knife in the air between them before he resumed the sweet toil of eating her out. 

She whined high, her fingers _kneading_ at his scalp making his eyes roll shut in satisfaction. "Ar- _thur_ , I--oh, Jesus, _Arthur!_ " Irene sobbed when he lashed her clit with his tongue, rolling over it again and again.

"That good, hmm?" Arthur asked rhetorically, smiling against her when all he got was a moan in reply. She was so damn _hot_ on his tongue, her core soaked with desire just from his heavy petting. That she had never experienced pleasure with a man was _asinine_ , and Arthur privately vowed to give her everything that he could. Fastening his lips down over her clit, he swept his tongue back and forth in a tick-tocking motion that made her nails dig into his scalp. 

_That's not just something they put in the books so women don't decide to never get bedded?_

"Gotta' admit," Arthur said, pulling away for a moment. "I'm a little curious about those books you been readin' if women are gettin' bedded in 'em." He continued with a teasing grin, full-blown laughing when Irene covered her face and shook her head, groaning. "What, no recommendations for me, Miss Irene? I enjoy a good piece of literature as much as the next feller!"

"You are cruelty incarnate, Arthur Morgan." She huffed. 

Arthur relented, delving back into her with his fingers _and_ tongue as an apology. He assumed from the half-stifled whimpers of _don't stop_ that he was forgiven his transgressions. "You taste so damn good." He muttered, rumbling in approval when her hips rocked upwards and filled his greedy mouth with her cunt. "So damn _good_ , wanna' get every last _drop_ of this treat."

"A-Arthur--" she panted, "I feel...oh God, I…"

Her cunt pulsed under his touch and Arthur stroked his thumb gently over her slit as she came apart for him, every contraction making her slick folds twitch. " _There_ we go," he soothed while she bucked and trembled. "There we go. Nice and easy, Miss Irene." He felt an odd sense of triumph, like when he managed to pick a troublesome stone out of the divot of Chase's frog. _Androcles_ didn't have quite the same ring as Arthur, however. 

Irene's chest was rising and falling rapidly, the woman still gasping for air. Arthur was unprepared for when she seized the front of his shirt and pressed her mouth to his own, whimpering even as she licked at his tongue. Arthur exhaled hard, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her back. _Probably_ more roughly than he should have. 

"You okay?" He panted, his nose brushing her own when he reluctantly pulled back an inch or so. 

"Yes, _God_ yes." She sighed, embracing him and giving him a dazed, _oddly_ grateful smile. "Are you...I-I mean, would you like to…" Irene tried to ask, that sweet blush making its way down to her shoulders. 

Arthur cupped her breast again, rolling over the tight little peak with his thumb. "' _Would I like to_ '...what?" He questioned playfully. "Use those pretty words of yours, Irene."

"I'm scared." She told him honestly, her breath hitching at his touches. "I...it's _unbecoming_ to be so wanton-"

" _Honest_ , Irene. The word you're lookin' for is honest. Ain't nothin' wrong with knowin' what you want." Arthur hurried to interject. "The only sin is helpin' yourself to what ain't freely given."

"Arthur…" she trailed off, staring at him like she had never seen him before. 

He cleared his throat after a minute. "Yeah?"

"I... _thank you_ , Arthur. I wouldn't have--thank you for saying that." Irene laughed, "suppose now _you're_ the one saying what _I_ need to hear."

"I s'pose so." Arthur agreed, grimacing when a flash of lightning lit up the tent. Thunder rolled after a time, the storm still a ways away. His hands moved to the buttons on his shirt, easing them open one by one. Irene had herself propped up on her elbows again, and Arthur wouldn't say her expression didn't do _wonders_ for his ego. "You'll catch flies if you don't close your mouth, Miss Irene."

She snapped her mouth shut, turning her head away with a nervous giggle. "Sorry! I-I apologize, I know staring is rude." 

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Irene." Arthur said softly, his hands falling into his lap after he shrugged free of his shirt. He saw her eyes dart over towards him, the woman clearly trying to be more surreptitious about her peeping. "Ma'am, you are buckass on my bedroll. You're _more_ than welcome to look." He drawled, his words laced with a confidence he didn't exactly _feel_. He knew what he looked like. 

Irene covered her eyes, and then peeked through her fingers at him. "Are...are you certain?" Instead of replying verbally, Arthur just began unbuttoning his placket. "Arthur, I...oh." She mumbled as he shoved his pants off of his hips and down his legs, freeing up his cock. "Oh, _Lord_." Her hand actually moved like she wanted to touch him, but she flinched back. 

Arthur groaned low in his throat, pleasantly warmed by her reaction. It had been far too long since he had indulged himself, and even longer since he'd had such lovely company while doing so. "You _can_ touch me, y'know." He offered, and her hand crept forward again. 

"It...I won't hurt you?" Irene asked worriedly, her fingers hovering in midair just above his turgid cock. The damn thing was already slick with pre-spend, droplets continuing to leak forth as though his whole body was just _waiting_ for her to be brave.

"Touch gentle-like." Arthur instructed, gritting his teeth when she circled the head of his dick with the pad of her index finger. " _Jesus Mary n' Joseph-_ " he cursed under his breath, the sensation of her fondling him like the lightning outside had leaped into his blood. Then, "your husband didn't let you _touch_ him?"

"I was told to be still and quiet for him." Irene replied absently, her attention blatantly elsewhere as she drew her finger up and down the side of his cock. "He didn't last long. I assume he feared if I touched him, his fuse might shorten even further." 

Arthur tried to stifle his snort of laughter to no avail, waving off the inquisitive look she gave him. "Sorry, sorry. I'm just...I ain't really _surprised_ , is all." He quipped, feeling more than a bit smug. He choked on his next breath when she wrapped her fingers around his cock, the woman seeming to gauge the weight of him in her palm. 

"It's not _nearly_ so terrifying when I can see it." Irene remarked bluntly, trailing her thumb over the sensitive head. 

Arthur grunted, catching her wrist. "Easy now, Irene. I'll freely admit eatin' you out mighta' shortened my _own_ fuse, don't take it personal." He pressed another kiss to the inside of her wrist, nipping at the tender skin there and hearing her gasp softly. "I'd like to bed you very, _very_ much, Miss Irene." He breathed. "Show you how it ought to be."

"I…" Irene hesitated, the pattering of the rain and the encroaching thunder the only sound in the tent for a moment. "It won't hurt?"

"I hope not. But if it does, you tell me an' I'll stop." Arthur murmured, framing her face with his large hands so she couldn't hide from him. "I swear it, Irene. I ain't gonna' hurt you if I can help it." He promised fervently. "Not that kinda' man, okay?"

"I know you're not." Strong words. _Brave_ , considering her history, her lack of knowledge about his past and her current vulnerable state. "Oh, but…" she paused, then carried on stiffly, "Arthur, if I get pregnant-"

"T-There's... _ways_ to prevent that." He should have...it wasn't _impossible_ to get ahold of condoms, in spite of the advertising restrictions. He felt like an idiot. "I don't have...I mean, I'll be careful." Lord, since _when_ did he talk about this so openly? Lightning flashed like punctuation on his sentence. Irene looked pensive, her eyes wide in the dim light, but Arthur would have sworn he saw _relief_ there. 

"I know there are more ways than one. My father was a doctor," was her even reply. "Please do what you can. I'm sorry I'm not more prepared."

"Irene…" Arthur was at a loss, cradling her head to his chest. "You trust me?" He asked for the second time that day, his voice a hard rasp.

"Yes."

No hesitation. Arthur closed his eyes, warring with himself. Nothing that he knew about was _foolproof_. But nothing that her father could have known about was foolproof either, aside from abstaining altogether. Things could fail. 

They would be careful, he assured himself. "Okay." He croaked out, trying for a smile. "Lay down with me."

Irene obliged without question, seeming a bit confused when he had her straddle his hips. Arthur pulled her to his chest for a slow, sloppy kiss, feeling his cock slide against her wet little cunt when he rolled his hips upwards. Irene gasped out his name, her hands clutching helplessly at the bedroll beneath them. "A-Arthur!"

"Yes, Irene?" The man drawled against the shell of her ear, smirking into her skin as she whined.

"Th-This is--"

"Different, I know. Maybe considered _unseemly_. But I want you as close as I can get you, Irene. And…" Arthur paused, burying his face in the curve of her throat. "Want you to be able to get away from me if you need to, okay?" He explained softly. "Ain't gonna' hurt my feelin's, I promise."

Her exhale was a sharp little thing, as though she had just been pricked by a thorn. "You won't make me stay?"

"Not if you don't want to, no." Arthur answered firmly, taking no offense to her query. "You say stop, I stop." As much as he hated to admit it, this wasn't exactly his first rodeo with someone like Irene. People like him tended to be... _heavy-handed_ , so a little caution and consideration went _miles_.

She kissed him _hard_ then, making Arthur groan into her mouth when she wrapped her fingers around his cock and stroked him between their bodies. He knew he must have throbbed in her grip, because she tightened her hold momentarily in response. "I'm...going to put this inside me now." Irene announced, a little awkwardly. 

Arthur chuckled, the noise quickly dissolving into a gasp as she shifted her weight and the head of his cock pushed past her slick folds, _Christ_ she was _hot_ -

The man tangled his fists into the bedroll so he didn't grab onto her and _rut_ upwards like he instinctively wanted to do, his breath coming in harsh, raspy pants as she _slowly_ worked herself down on his cock. " _Mary mother of-_ " Her little sighs and moans had Arthur gritting his teeth to the point that his jaw ached. "You alright?" He managed to ask, daring to raise his hands to rest on her thighs. 

" _Yes_ ." Irene breathed, the smile on her face a moment later looking like sheer bliss. Arthur was a _goner_. 

"You _sure?_ " He had to verify, his hands traveling upwards to cup her face. "Feels good for me no matter what, you know that. Need it to be good for you, too." 

Her eyes opened and she looked down at him, stealing the breath out of his chest as she threaded her fingers into his hair. "It's already good. Now make it better." 

…

"So what will you do now?" Arthur asked sleepily, nuzzling his nose into her tousled curls. The rain pattering on the canvas of the tent was lulling him into a doze. The air had cooled considerably in the wake of the storm. thank the _Lord_ for small favors. 

Irene's sigh gusted across his collarbone. "Not certain. I never dreamed to think about what would happen if I was truly free. Ever since I found out about him being dead, I've...I'm not sure how to explain it. There is relief, of course, but also a type of dread. I have grown used to this nomadic lifestyle. I have grown used to not being tied down by civilization."

"You sure 'bout that?" Arthur chuckled, "you still talk like you're sittin' in a parlor enjoyin' tea with the high society."

"Oh, you and I both know that you catch more flies with honey, Mister Arthur." He felt her smile against his chest, "I...there was a sort of _interlude_ to this life that I found enjoyable when I believed I was still hiding. A simplicity. I knew I could not settle anywhere with other folk, not for very long anyway, as it would make it more and more difficult to hide who I was. So I did not _want_ to settle anywhere." She hummed, stretching languidly against his side. 

Arthur rumbled, his hands wandering over her deliciously-naked body. "You still feel that way, Irene?" 

"I don't want to go back." She murmured. "There's nothing there for me anymore. Yet I don't think I truly _belong_ anywhere just yet." 

"How about with me?" Arthur offered quietly, tilting her chin up so he could cover her throat with kisses. He rolled onto his side and pulled her back to his chest, continuing to nudge his nose against the side of her jaw until she giggled that he was tickling her. "You could come join the gang." _Bold words_ , he realized a little too late. "I'm sure the other gals would love you, and Dutch-"

Irene shook her head and Arthur fell silent, burying his face in her curls to inhale her scent with a sort of forlorn resignation. "It's very kind of you to offer, Mister Arthur, but I'm afraid foisting myself upon an already established group would be a recipe for disaster. In a way, I am still uncertain of my identity. Despite my age, I have never really... _been myself_ . I have always been something else, had some role strapped to my back. Now that I've truly shed it, I'll need time to settle into being who I ought to be." She threw him a smile over her shoulder. "Whether Frank, Irene, or some amalgamation of the two, I am uncertain. But I do know this: I am _glad_ to have met you, Arthur Morgan. For you helped me banish the burden of fear that bowed my shoulders so readily. I thank you from the bottom of my heart." 

Arthur was silent for a time, mulling everything over. "Suppose I'd better make the most of this then, huh?" He asked finally, gesturing upwards at the roof of the tent. "Don't sound like that rain is plannin' on stoppin' anytime soon." His cock twitched against her rear, and he grunted when she shifted her weight. 

"Like this?" Irene asked curiously, raising her leg and hooking it over the back of his thigh so his freshly-awakened cock could rub across her folds.

Arthur huffed out a breath, seizing her hip with one hand to keep her still. "You're playin' a dangerous game, woman." His voice grated a bit.

"You don't scare me, Arthur Morgan." She replied playfully.

_Because you don't know who I am. If you did...maybe I would_. 

Arthur closed his eyes to ward off _that_ dark thought, and in his moment of distraction her hand wrapped around his cock and she canted her hips back, guiding him inside her once again. 

It was like finally coming _home_ , a soothing balm for the spirit that had been forced to wander for so long. Arthur sheathed himself as deep as he dared, her breathy cries of his name more than enough praise to keep him warm in the no-doubt solitary months to come.

"Irene, Irene, you're beautiful." He clumsily complimented her, his lips pressed to her ear so she could hear whatever fool thing came out of his mouth. "God _dammit_ , you are _so_ beautiful. _Perfect_ ." His hands found her breasts, cupping and caressing them until she was writhing, bucking back against him in a manner that was downright _wanton_.

He loved it. The feeling of her around him, beside him, underneath his hands…

Arthur Morgan did not consider himself a good man. He did not consider himself a particularly _smart_ man either. But right now, right _now_ , he considered himself to be a remarkably lucky man.

"I'm close-" he choked, _growling_ when Irene clenched down on him and keened to announce her own climax. Arthur nearly spent himself inside her, only just managing to pull out and spill his seed on her thigh instead. He snarled as he came, the sensation of his hand downright _disappointing_ after being so deep in her. " _Christ_ alive, Irene." He panted startled when she gently palmed his still hard cock and carefully urged it back inside her. " _Easy_ , woman--"

"I just like the feeling, that's all." Irene assured him, shivering and arching her back against his chest as she moved into a downright _luxurious_ stretch. 

Arthur groaned, wrapping his arms around her to keep them pressed together. His hands rested at the apex of her thighs, and he stroked absently over the skin he found there. "I'd love to have stayed inside you, but I know neither of us are keen on bringin' a new young'un into the world." He tried to smile, tried to make it a joke.

"Maybe someday." 

Irene's nonchalant, sleepy words hit Arthur like a punch to the gut. What was this woman _doing_ to him? Arthur loathed himself for the way his heart hitched, _ached_ at the idea of having a child. For the longest time in his younger years he had deluded himself into thinking that he might have something like that with Mary, dreaming about _domesticity_ of all things. Going out and teaching little Jack how to fish had been torture, because all he could think about was John _leaving_ the boy behind and Jesus Christ, _how_ could a person ever do something like that?

"I think I'm gettin' a little too old." He admitted quietly. "Think the ship's sailed on that one. Plus, I mean, with the stuff I'm involved in…" he trailed off, tightening his hold ever so slightly. Irene yawned, snuggling down into his arms. He kissed her cheek. "Ah, don't mind me, Irene. I'll wake you up if anythin' happens."

She drifted off so quickly, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts. He eventually pulled away from her, a hand on her back to keep her still, and he felt a ridge beneath his fingertips. Squinting in the dim light of the tent, he realized it was a scar. And it wasn't alone, her back was fairly _riddled_ with them. 

His stomach dropped in dismay. Arthur was not free of his own scars, of course. The ones on his chin were freely visible, and the rest of his body bore a fair amount of mileage to that end. He hadn't had an easy time of it. No one in the Van Der Linde gang had. 

He untied the tent flap and propped it open after shuffling back into his pants, lighting the remains of his cigarette. The older man stared out at the rain for a good long while, his mind thousands of miles away as the cigarette slowly burned to ash between his lips. Tomorrow morning, perhaps the morning after that if he was fortunate enough to steal a bit more time, they would part ways once more, cast themselves adrift to the tides of fate. 

He might never see her again. 

After the weeks he had spent, wondering whether the phantom woman in the Valentine hotel had been nothing but a figment of his imagination...and now, _knowing_ that she was _real_ , flesh and blood...

Arthur lit another cigarette and reached for his satchel, tugging free his journal and then settling in to sketch her sleeping form. Here and now, in this secret clearing, he would eke out _some_ semblance of peace. The graphite stub swept across the page, capturing forever the curve of her cheek, the _glorious_ mess of that chestnut-brown hair, the wrinkles of the blanket that he had draped over her in case the breeze grew too ambitious. 

_Turns out the man I THOUGHT was Frank was actually -IRENE-. The world does so love to afflict me with its twists and turns_...


	4. Bonus: A Brief Diversion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was doing so well. I was minding my own business. And then someone had to tell me the Mary quests (that I've already completed ;-; ) are optional. I've been trying very hard to avoid spoilers, you see. In light of this, I want to pretend like I had some respect for myself, and this uh...drabble was born. A drabble of over four k. This is sort of a bonus chapter/spin-off for Whether It Works Out Or Not, so you may want to read that before you dig into this. Enjoy!
> 
> [Spoiler warning for the first four chapters of the game!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains allusions to previous abuse, mentions of character death and historical inaccuracies. Stay safe!]

He was a fool. 

The _biggest_ fool. 

Arthur hoped that someday, _someday_ he would quit lying to himself, quit hitching his wagon to the star that was Mary Linton ( _née Gillis_ ) and get the hell _over_ her. 

But at the moment, he was still a fool. 

He'd drug out his good coat, washed his face, brushed his hair and checked his teeth.

All it took was that woman writing him again and he was in a twist. To his admittedly-pitiful credit, he _had_ sat on the choice for nearly two days. But he was nothing if not predictable and set in his ways. So he straightened himself out with feigned reluctance, mounted his horse and headed for the smoggy metropolis of Saint Denis.

The largest of fools was Arthur Morgan.

Arthur had no idea what he was doing, _truly_. He disliked her father about as much as the man disliked him. Perhaps a bit more; Arthur tried not to do things by halves.

He hated _brooding_ and yet here he was, trotting through the streets of Saint Denis with a sullen, dour frown on his face. It didn't help that every Irish-accented voice had his heart leaping in his chest before the harsh weight of reality came crashing back down. 

Sean was _dead_ , killed in cold blood by the opening salvo in Rhodes. Arthur despised himself for letting that happen. Despised himself for yet again being too willing to trust a plan he knew next to nothing about.

At least they had gotten Jack back. Jesus Christ, _at least_ . The little boy had been unharmed and thoroughly amused by the whole endeavor instead of traumatized, thank the powers above for small favors. It felt odd, like it wasn't his place to say, but Arthur had still told John he was damned proud of him for _finally_ deciding to step up and be a real father to Jack. The younger man accepted the praise mistily, clearing his throat and mumbling his thanks to Arthur for all his help.

Arthur shook his head at himself, tugging the note from Mary out and squinting at the address she had given him. _Up the street past the Fontana theater_ … _Hotel Grand..._

Chase nickered softly and he patted the horse's neck apologetically. "Sorry girl, let's go." Sometimes Arthur wondered whether his horse disliked the city even more than he did. Her ears were turning this way and that, picking up all the surrounding ruckus. "I know girl, I know." He soothed, letting her pick her gait when he spurred her into motion. 

He didn't even reach the theater though. Violin music caught his ear and Arthur brought Merry Chase to a sharp halt, nearly causing an accident when he failed to notice the surrey behind him. All the time he spent apologizing through his teeth to the cab driver made him lose the sound, and Arthur turned in place for a moment before he heard it again. It was coming from the trolley circle up ahead.

He hesitated for a moment. Mary was waiting for him. Hell, she had already _been_ waiting for at least three days. He shouldn't dally.

Arthur bit his lower lip.

He shouldn't. 

He took Chase's reins in hand and went to go mount up again. But instead, he found himself resting his forehead on the tooled leather of his saddle. The mare whinnied, curiously nosing at the empty pockets of his fancy jacket in search of her customary treats while the man warred internally.

This was _idiotic_ . He couldn't think that every damn stitch of fiddle music he heard might be Irene, just like he couldn't think that every person with an Irish accent might be Sean. Irene was probably still out in the wilds, living her life as she saw fit, and Sean was _dead_. Best he come to terms with it.

So _much_ had happened since he saw her last. Him being three-quarters murdered by the O'Driscolls, the Braithwaite manse burning to the ground, Pinkertons returning with their threats, Tilly's abduction, Jack's disappearance...

Arthur was so deep in thought he didn't realize that his legs were carrying him towards the square until the buildings opened up around him, mid-afternoon sunlight illuminating the green, statue-graced island in the center of the trolley turnabout. 

There was a fellow with a guitar, and one with a worn concertina. Lastly, the thing that had drawn him here--

Christ, it _was_ Irene. It _was!_ Arthur's heart leaped into his throat as he watched dumbly from the shadows of the street. He hadn't known how much he had missed her until he saw her again. She was wearing her hat, her face appropriately filthy, and yet all Arthur could see was the brilliance of her smile. 

He fumbled for the saddlebag at Chase's flank, cursing himself for not wearing his satchel. His journal had gotten a bit crushed from the commute, but Arthur hardly cared as he flipped through to find a fresh page. 

The sketch was quick and loose, graphite staining the heel of his hand and the sleeve of his fine jacket. Arthur hadn't even thought to move the fabric out of the way, too intent on capturing the performance of the disguised woman to concern himself with the mess he had made. 

A small crowd had gathered, other folk obviously just as entranced as Arthur was by at least _one_ of these musicians. 

Arthur waited for a _while_ on the outskirts of the square, fidgeting with his journal. He was uncertain if he should even approach 'Frank' in such a public place. After all, Arthur was a wanted man. Then of course, there was the business of him _being_ in the city in the first place.

_Mary_ , he recalled guiltily.

Irene swayed back and forth in time to the lively tune she and her associates were currently playing, her eyes closed as she seemed to _feel_ the music in her body. Arthur couldn't have left even if he had wanted to. 

Lord, he was a fool. 

He knew he was smiling like an idiot, just leaning against the wall and listening to the lilting melody. As if he was some kind of city fop, someone who _appreciated the arts_ or whatever the hell it was that high society folk considered music to be. Was music art?

Watching Irene play, Arthur was strongly inclined to say _yes, it absolutely was_. Though he may be a bit biased.

The man with the concertina was a real talented fellow, his tattooed fingers flying over the buttons of the instrument. The anchor on his forearm marked him as an able-bodied seaman and Arthur wondered if his ship was docked at the wharf, or if he had given up on the sea like Pearson. The individual with the guitar seemed the youngest out of the group, but his hands were sure as he played. Maybe he had been afforded the considerable luxury of lessons as a boy?

_I should see about asking Javier to teach Jack something_ , Arthur mused. Applause startled him from his reverie and he noted that while he had been thinking, the song had ended. Irene was carefully packing away her violin as the large man did his best to saunter nonchalantly across the square to her.

"You're real fine at playin' that fiddle, boah." He said gruffly. Irene looked up, her expression wary until she seemed to recognize him.

"Arthur!" She exclaimed, and Christ if she didn't sound _pleased_ . His heart tripped in his chest. "I didn't expect to find you _here_ of all places! What a funny thing fate is." She gave him a handshake, clasping his hand between both of hers with a warm and delighted smile. "And you've dressed so fine! Is there a party you're off to?"

Arthur knew he was probably blushing to the roots of his hair. "Naw, no party. Just uh, takin' in the sights I s'pose." He drawled after a moment, giving her his own smile in return. "How have you been...uh, Frank." 

"Well enough, sir! Allow me to introduce you to my temporary partners, Misters Michael and Bannock. And Michael and Bannock, this is my dear friend Mister Arthur." Irene said grandly, like she was announcing him at some gala instead of a dingy street corner. 

Michael, the guitarist, shook Arthur's hand without so much as a peep out of him. He reminded Arthur of Kieran, someone obviously terrified of the world. Bannock, to the contrary, clasped Arthur's forearm and greeted him with a thickly-accented, " _how'dye do sirrah?_ "

Arthur was relieved at the very least that Irene hadn't fallen in with shadier musicians than these, the man overused to the checkered company Trelawny would keep. Apparently the trio had been playing together for the past two days, since they managed to panhandle a better take that way. 

Irene bid her compatriots farewell and then looked at Arthur expectantly. "Well? Are you going to tell me why you're _actually_ here?" She asked in an undertone. 

Arthur groaned unhappily. He had been _trying_ to put that from his mind. Taking Bluster's reins to keep the horse steady while she mounted, the man replied, "how about you jus' give me a tour of the city an' we won't worry about that right now, okay?"

"A brief diversion then? Excellent choice." Irene winked at him and Arthur was wracked with the _insane_ desire to kiss her. He clenched the reins so tightly the leather squeaked in his palm, but mercifully Irene didn't seem to notice. "If you'll mount up and follow me, Mister Mor-"

"Just Arthur here, Frank." He interrupted, keeping his voice low.

She nodded slowly. "Of course. The same for me, Mister Arthur." Her voice was smooth and calm, like they were discussing something inconsequential. 

Arthur hadn't thought about whether it would be dangerous for someone to know _her_ last name, but he supposed it made sense. She had _disappeared_ , after all. Granted, he hadn't put together that she was a woman until after she had been naked two damn inches from him, but he couldn't count on everyone being _quite_ as dense as he was.

The two of them, no doubt looking like a polished bumpkin and a waifish carpetbagger, set off on horseback to lose themselves in the city.

...

She decided to bring him around the perimeter, wandering into the more affluent side of town by means of the back roads. It was much easier to see the grand houses from the opposite side, as several of them lacked their wrought-iron fences or brick walls in the back. 

"And _here_ is my former abode." Irene said, indicating the yellowed, cold estate that was bordered on all sides by much of the same. She could _feel_ Arthur gawking and it made her cringe.

"You... _in there?_ " He asked incredulously, his head on a swivel as he just kept _staring_ while they rode past the building. "You ain't serious."

"Serious as slander, Mister Arthur." She replied. "That was my home throughout my marriage."

"You'd have preferred a den of grizzlies fresh off their hibernation, I'll wager?" Arthur hazarded a sarcastic guess, his knowing smirk making her roll her eyes.

"Something like that." Irene sighed, shaking her head. "God, the time I spent there just feels like a faded nightmare now. Some distant, far-off thing."

"That'd be better than how it used to be, I imagine." 

"Too true." She reined in Bluster after a moment, letting Arthur meander up alongside her while they wandered aimlessly through the gilded neighborhood. "Will you tell me what brought you here in such dashing garb, Mister Arthur?" It truly _was_ dashing; the long coat he wore seemed to waver between black and the darkest shade of green and his waistcoat was surprisingly unwrinkled. Perhaps her standards were too low, but she thought privately that he cleaned up well. 

"If you tell me why you ain't broke back into that place an' taken everythin' of value in the joint, _shoah_." Arthur drawled, resting one hand lazily on the saddle horn and the other on his revolver. He seemed to primarily let his horse pick her own path, only occasionally using his legs to gently redirect her before they ended up toppling some puffed-up gentry.

"Well, I'd rather not get arrested." Irene grimaced.

Arthur waved off her trepidation, confidently stating, "it ain't so _bad_ . They kick you in the ribs a few times, you say somethin' _real_ unkind about their mothers, a few more kicks land. It's honestly kinda' borin'."

Irene squinted. "I am... _uncertain_ if you are joking, Mister Arthur."

His piercing blue eyes crinkled at the edges from his genuine smile. "No jokes here, Mister Frank."

"What a terror you are!" Irene laughed, still not quite sure she believed him. "I realize now that leaving the way I did was a bit... _dramatic_ . Careless, in a sense. I'm afraid I read too many stories about daring highwaymen and valiant knights in my youth. I fancied myself both the prince _and_ the damsel in this endeavor. Things could have gone much worse for me out in the world." She tilted her head to the side, appraising the man who rode next to her. "Arthur, have you ever read the tale of _The Little Mermaid_?"

"The what now?" Arthur asked bluntly.

Irene giggled, trying in vain to stifle the effeminate noise with her sleeve. " _The Little Mermaid_! It's a fairytale, Mister Arthur."

"'Fraid I haven't kept up to date with children's lit'rature. Why d'you ask?"

"Oh, I just would have made a comparison is all." Irene felt a little defeated. Of _course_ he wouldn't have read a silly story like that, what was she thinking?

"Well, you gonna' tell me what happens?" Arthur queried after she fell silent. "Or you just gonna' leave me twistin' in the wind over some...fish story?"

"It's not a _fish story_ ," Irene protested, "it's a love story!"

"About fish?"

" _No!_ " Irene dared to gently swat his arm and she was treated to his rich laughter in response. "If anything, it's a very poignant tale about what happens when you love someone so dearly, you are willing to give up everything, leave _everything_ you know for them." Irene smiled sadly down at her saddle. "Even if the cost is immensely high." 

"Jesus, that's from a _fairytale?_ Now I don't feel so bad about gettin' Jack them penny dreadfuls." Arthur remarked glibly. "I thought fairytales were s'posed to have good endin's, and...well, horses and fellers in armor and such."

"Oh it does have a good ending, though! The whole story is bittersweet, you see. Rife with themes of unrequited love. As for my personal interpretation, I believed the moral was that even if you change _everything_ about yourself for someone else, the object of your affections may still find you lacking or unappealing. So though it may be painful, it is better to be true to yourself in the long run." 

Had Irene been paying attention, she would have noticed the way Arthur's eyes darted to her face, the way his jaw clenched and his back straightened as he adjusted his posture in the saddle. But she was still looking down. 

"I took comfort in such silly tales while I lived here. Far too often did I feel like I was losing myself, losing whatever shred of _Irene_ that still lingered in my body. It was a mercy to pore over old survival books and children's stories alike, for I knew the knowledge contained in both would help to keep me alive." Irene realized with a start that she had been monopolizing the conversation and she proceeded to blush furiously. "Oh, I apologize! I didn't mean to prattle on so, Mister Arthur."

"It's a pleasure listenin' to you talk about somethin' you enjoy, Irene." Arthur said sincerely, lowering his voice when he spoke her real name. The man reached out and boldly patted her thigh before clicking his tongue at his horse.

The duo continued on around the city, Irene pointing out various landmarks or eating establishments as they went. Their travels took them past the wharfside markets and the bustling docks, circling to the railway station.

The tracks eventually barred her way forward and Irene dismounted to lead Bluster across, Arthur gamely doing the same for his own horse after a moment or two.

"He gets nervous about the tracks." Irene explained, patting Bluster's nose. "I think it's the metal against his hooves, he's not used to it."

"Fair enough." Arthur allowed, continuing ruefully to the horse, "I ain't used to it either, big feller. It's my opinion that all this rattlin' and clankin' wears on man and beast alike."

They carried on their stroll on foot, the pace leisurely while the horses ambled along behind. The park across from the stables had been Irene's target from the start, as it was relatively quiet even for the city. It would be a nice spot to just sit and talk, perhaps watch the sunset with a bite to eat. Of course, she _could_ invite him back to her camp, but his state of dress indicated that he had some sort of appointment to keep. Though...he seemed to be in no rush to get to _whatever_ it was, the man appearing overly content to merely saunter about the varied terrain of Saint Denis.

However, her plans would be foiled right as they were walking past the stable doors. 

There was a sudden commotion from inside the stables, raised voices that sounded like a young woman and an elderly man. Arthur went pale for some reason and the next thing Irene knew, she was being dragged into the alley beside the stable. Her protest was muffled by his palm and Arthur hushed her, his brows drawn together tightly while he kept her back pinned to the stable wall. 

He appeared to be listening intently to the ruckus going on and Irene could feel his heart _hammering_ where his chest rested against hers. "What's wrong?" She mumbled into his hand.

Arthur looked down at her like he had never seen her before, and Irene was startled by the depth of the heat in his eyes. "Nothin'." He murmured, dragging his thumb gently over her lower lip. "Nothin' at _all_ , Miss Irene."

...

He knocked her hat aside and dug his fingers into her hair hungrily, loving the way her curls seemed to embrace his hands. "Christ, I've missed you." He breathed, tilting his head to kiss her. Irene clung to the lapels of his calling coat, her eyes closed as she kissed him back. 

_Lord_ , what was wrong with him? He felt maddened, frenzied; everything burning down around his ears and all that remained was his need to be _needed_ , to be praised and loved and _cared_ _for_.

The intolerable want to be _seen_ that had gnawed at his insides like damn _vermin_ , leaving him gutless and hollow on Mary's front steps with the echoes of her father's cruel words ringing in his ears.

_Until Irene_.

He could still vaguely hear Mary arguing with her father, the old bastard spitting hateful vitriol at his daughter. _Some things never change_ , he mused, then he pushed her from his mind to focus on Irene.

_Irene, Irene_ , her kisses tender and curves soft beneath the angles of the men's clothing she wore, took over his senses with the same fervor as that hazy evening in Valentine. The kind words she gifted to him had warmed his soul on hard nights, on the days when he couldn't think of a _single_ good thing about himself, when Micah's poisonous remarks burrowed beneath his skin to fester. She expelled the venom from his body in a way that Mary had never even come _close_ to doing, and she had accomplished it with enviable ease.

" _You're brave, you're loyal and you're_ **_kind_ ** _, Arthur_ ." She had stated it so certainly, like there was no room for doubt. " _Don't hate yourself for being kind, Arthur, and don't let the world beat that kindness out of you. There are people,_ **_so_ ** _many people who will love you for it._ "

Arthur Morgan was not a good man. He was all too sure that his sins would drag him down to Hell soon enough. Just _being_ in Saint Denis felt like a rope tightening around his neck. But while he still drew breath, he intended to make the most of his time. Especially if it concerned experiencing certain _earthly pleasures_ with the woman gripping his coat like she was fit to swoon. 

" _Irene_ ," he groaned into her neck, fumbling with the placket of her trousers. She helped him with the buttons, her fingers steady when they brushed his. "Can I-"

"It's already good, if you recall." Irene interrupted him to whisper, guiding his hand into her pants. "Now make it better."

Jesus, the _trust_ she gave him so free and easy would break his heart. Arthur swallowed past the lump in his throat and rested his forehead against hers. "You'll have to be quiet." He murmured the warning with a wry smile. "'Fraid I'm a bit too bold for common sense." His grin faltered when she groped his hardening length through the material of his town pants. 

"I'm not the only one who needs to worry." She retorted, her smug giggle hitching when he moaned into her shoulder and rutted his hips against her. "Arthur, we could…I mean, I know it isn't proper, but…" Irene trailed off, biting her lip and looking up at him.

Arthur pressed his mouth to her ear so he could rasp, "askin' me to spread your legs and have my way with you against the stable wall ain't exactly _ladylike_ , Miss Irene."

She shivered at his words, tapped her chin in mock thought and _nodded_. "You're absolutely right!"

Confused, Arthur watched her button her pants back up, then straighten out her shirt and hat. The woman strutted into the street once more, whistling nonchalantly for her horse. 

Irene turned and raised an eyebrow at the still-gawking Arthur, throwing him a mischievous wink after a moment. "Well? My camp is on the outskirts of the Bayou, Mister Arthur. It would be such a shame to waste this _momentum_." She teased, settling herself into the saddle. 

Arthur now felt a bit foolish for a refreshingly different reason. Had he _really_ been about to throw caution to the wind and risk exposing the both of them in a Saint Denis alleyway, just to solidify his attempt to forget Mary? He was a _wanted man_ , for Christ's sake. Talk about using the wrong damn head to think! 

Lord, he was a fool. Thank God at least _one_ of them still had the good sense to keep their wits about them.

He chuckled ruefully, nodding in agreement. "A'course. Lead the way!" 

He knew there was no guarantee he might see her again after this most recent... _diversion_ , but as Arthur rode along behind her he was thankful that fate had decided to throw them together at least _once_ more before he was sent to his maker.

...

_Met up with -IRENE- again. She is even lovelier than I recall. Maybe it was the near-death experience I had with Colm O'Driscoll and his bunch, but I have become sorely inclined to take my joy where I can find it._

_She told me a story of a fish woman, one of them MERMAIDS like what Pearson talks about sometimes. Meat of the tale appeared to be not to change for someone who may not appreciate the effort. Christ, it was like she knew._

_Thinking about Mary still pains me. Many years of my life were spent courting that woman only to have it never amount to nothing. Bit like -BLACKWATER-, though I think I would much prefer the honesty of being shot at by folk trying to kill me. I remember Irene scolding me for letting myself be used that day we went after Jamie. I suppose I was, but no longer. It was a bit like divine intervention, meeting Irene in Saint Denis. As if the good Lord himself was leading me away from the willful ruination and futility of chasing after the Widow Linton. I must be more wary of such pitfalls in the future_...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The song Irene was playing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n44J0dCgo1w ]


	5. Bonus: Back In The Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay I promise, I SWEAR this is the last bonus chapter until I finish the game. I swear.
> 
> [Spoiler warning for the first four chapters of the game!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [!TRIGGER WARNING!: For allusions to character death, mentions of previous abuse, historical inaccuracies and my poorly-remembered French. Stay safe!]

She felt a bit silly in her outfit.

Of course, she didn't need to display as such. " _ Tastefully understated _ ," she had said to herself in the mirror with a firm nod. It was the fawn-brown dress (admittedly, it  _ was _ the only dress she currently owned), but she had scraped together the funds for some light trimmings and alterations. A flounce of lace around the hem, a small length of lovely cream ribbon at the waist. The corset, while  _ unwanted _ , would be expected, practically  _ required _ in polite company, and even secondhand it was by far the most expensive piece of the puzzle. After that, everything else seemed to fall into place.

Irene Carson ( _ née Craft _ ) arrived at the ball astride Bluster, her hair crowned with a plethora of vanilla flowers and one single spider orchid. The buttermilk buckskin had been curried to within an inch of his life, and sported a matching cluster of vanilla flowers in his mane. He behaved remarkably well given all the hubbub, not putting up any fuss when he was taken from her to be stabled for the evening.

Irene had no elaborate hat to wear, no fantastical feathered monstrosity, so she had made do with what she could find. The flowers would be out of fashion, but they would suit her understated attire a bit better. Perhaps she could be fashionably unfashionable, ahead of the curve.

"I will not be on the list, but please tell Mayor Lemieux that it is the Widow Carson." She politely informed the man with the list at the gate, doing her best to seem calm and collected.

This was a bold move in the normally-subtle social maneuvering of Saint Denis. Attempting to integrate herself back into the gentry was a risky strategy, but a recent realization had convinced her of the necessity of such a move. 

Arthur had made an excellent point. That house had sat silent for long enough. It was time for her to take what spoils she could, time for her to think of the future. Hardly fair that she should escape her dismal marriage with nothing but the clothes on her back!

Tonight would be the first step, provided she could even get past the door. 

As luck would have it, the mayor  _ himself _ , Henri Lemieux, came out to verify her claim. "Irene? My dear Mrs. Carson, is it really you?" He asked, all a-fluster. "Let me look at you my dear, let me just…" The man took her by the shoulders, examining her face. "It  _ is _ you!  _ Mon dieu _ , Irene, we all thought you had  _ perished! _ Willie assured us-"

"I am certain he went to great lengths to convince you all of the legitimacy of my death." Irene interrupted him coolly. "However, it would appear that he greatly exaggerated."

"He said you...Irene, my dear, he claimed you committed  _ suicide _ . He had me thoroughly convinced! But he remarried so quickly, I…" The mayor shook his head in a disapproving manner. "I know more individuals than I alone were skeptical! Oh it is so  _ good _ to see you again, my dear. Please, you are more than welcome." He offered her his arm, which she took without hesitation. "How have you  _ been _ , my  _ cheré _ ? Your hair is so short, so  _ fashionable! _ I see you have been taking cues from our sister city of Paris,  _ ne c'est pas? _ " 

" _ Naturellement _ , my dear sir." Irene replied, offering him a soft smile. "I know I will look somewhat out of place in your party. Please forgive my impropriety, but when the news of Willie's passing reached me...I so longed to see you all again, I could not stay away."

"Nonsense, you have nothing to apologize for!" The mayor scolded her lightly, patting her arm. "You have returned from the  _ dead _ , our very own Lazarus wreathed in flowers like a Belgian-crafted nymph! You are  _ most _ welcome at our little  _ fête _ , dear girl. I daresay, after whatever it was that you went through, you are quite justified in a night of revelry." His heavily-accented voice dipped to a conspiratorial tone, "and you  _ must _ tell us all about your trials. I am certain you have a grand story indeed!"

"Thank you for your hospitality, my dear Mayor Lemieux. I pray that the road ahead of me is far kinder than the road I have traveled thus far."

…

And here Arthur had thought that them playing  _ lawmen _ was as foolish as they could get. 

He couldn't even believe some of the stunts Dutch was willing to pull for the sake of  _ networking _ or  _ contacts _ . The bunch of them looked like damn circus animals in their tuxedos and white ties, and Bill in particular seemed  _ aggressively _ uncomfortable. Just getting him to  _ bathe _ had been a struggle. 

Arthur personally had been downright  _ henpecked _ by Grimshaw and Tilly, the two of them doing their damnedest to tame his thick, unruly mane with a comb and the vestiges of some pomade. All the while Abigail alternated between telling him he would cause every woman at the ball to  _ swoon _ and bemoaning his stubble. He had shaved  _ yesterday _ , damn it, and he wasn't going to shave again!

Lord, they were all fools.

Hosea was the only one who seemed to be even remotely at ease, the elderly man already maneuvering his way to the balcony above the courtyard before Dutch had even managed to find Bronte so they could ' _ pay their respects _ '. Bill just followed Hosea like a lost puppy.

Arthur didn't have to understand Italian to know that Senor Bronte was insulting them right out the gate. Neither did Dutch, if the tense smile he gave Angelo while they conversed was any indication. 

Arthur  _ was _ slightly entertained by the panic that flitted across the waiter's face when the larger man ended up catching his arm to use the match originally lit for Dutch's cigar. Never mind that Arthur had had to cut his own cigar with his damn  _ teeth _ , he was used to doing that shit. Used to falling by the wayside in the  _ gregarious _ presence of Dutch Van Der Linde. But he wasn't about to let this stuffed-shirt little  _ cocktail carrier _ get away with ignoring him scot-free. An uncut cigar he could excuse, but an  _ unlit _ one? That was sacrilege. 

The courtyard was  _ teeming _ with people, illuminated by the soft glow from crisscrossing strands of fashionable Edison bulbs. There were so many ornate gowns, elaborate hats and stiff-necked suits, Arthur scarcely knew where to look. " _ Mingle _ , Arthur." Dutch ordered in an undertone, giving him a concealed shove from behind. "Steal  _ nothing _ unless it's information."

Arthur sighed, straightened his white tie with the air of a man set before the gallows, and slowly descended into what reminded him of how educated folks would describe an active volcano. The courtyard was a maelstrom of activity, the dull roar punctuated by the mosquito-esque whine of a string quartet.  _ God _ , what he would give to be out with Irene in the hills instead, listening to her play the fiddle for the wolves.

He shook his head at himself. Again with this nonsense, thinking about her every time he heard violin music. 

He gritted his teeth and approached a group of women, seizing a bottle of champagne off one of the tables as he went. Arthur Morgan was not a smart man, but if there was one thing he knew, it was that folk were more inclined to think charitably towards you if you brought them alcohol. 

"Ladies, might I offer you some champagne?" Arthur asked, knowing his speech was stilted at best as he tried to choke his drawl down. The trio of women seemed to buy it though, simpering and preening while calling him a gentleman. 

_ That _ was a lie, and Lord was it a bold one. Though, looking around at the so-called  _ polite company _ , Arthur felt less like the villain that he was and more like a sheep that had wandered into a wolf's den. 

Maybe a nest of vipers would be more accurate. 

Either way, the large man wasn't used to feeling like  _ prey _ . As he made his rounds slowly across the courtyard, complimenting outlandish hats and offering his input on the most recent theatre performances (which he had absolutely  _ no _ clue about), Arthur experienced the distinct sensation of the noose tightening around his neck yet again. Saint Denis was  _ far _ too civilized for the likes of the Van Der Linde gang. It was only a matter of time before they were rooted out, sent scampering into the night like the vermin they were or slaughtered without quarter.

Lord, this place made him  _ long _ for the open country.

He bumped into Hosea and Dutch shortly after he had rescued a rail-thin man from choking to death on some peanuts, the two elders of the gang looking like they were plotting something.

"Figure anythin' out yet?" Arthur asked softly.

"Maybe, Arthur. You see that group of folks over by the fountain? That fellow with the tall top hat is the mayor himself." Dutch pointed the man out, gesturing with his cigar.

"So?" Arthur muttered. 

" _ So _ , my dear boy, ingratiating ourselves with the mayor's little band will no doubt do wonders for our credibility." 

"Dutch, if the mayor is already cozy in Bronte's pocket like we are, what's even the damn point?" Arthur queried, trying not to sound as sulky as he felt.

Dutch sighed heavily and Hosea quickly interjected, "it's not necessarily the  _ mayor _ that's our target, Arthur. Rather, the group of people  _ with _ him. We are attempting to make as many friends as we can, if you recall."

The large man nodded. "Shoah, I guess. You want me to mosey over and...what was the word? Ingrate myself?"

" _ Ingratiate _ Arthur, dear Lord." Dutch huffed.

"Right, yeah. Usual fake name?"

"Of course, my dear boy!" Hosea replied brightly, smiling and patting him on the back. "You may have some luck with the woman he has alongside him. From what I can gather, she's stolen the show a bit. The Widow Carson, back from the dead!" He chuckled, oblivious to the way Arthur froze. " _ Apparently _ she's returned to attempt to claim her deceased husband's money. Some nasty business, for certain."

"See if you can get into her good graces, Arthur. A wealthy benefactor could do the gang  _ wonders _ ." Dutch instructed absently, already back to scanning the crowds. 

"Her good--Dutch what the hell are you  _ sayin'?! _ " Arthur hissed, his stomach knotting as a nasty sense of comprehension slowly dawned on him.

"Oh go  _ on _ Arthur, just pour on the charm! I know you can do it." Hosea encouraged, misinterpreting the source of Arthur's discomfort. The older man gave him a gentle nudge and Arthur found himself sent on his way.

_ A wealthy benefactor _ . Was it Irene? Was Irene really  _ here? _ More importantly, was Arthur shameless enough to accomplish what Dutch had requested of him?

_ A wealthy benefactor _ . His skin crawled and Arthur suddenly felt disgusting as he realized that, were it not for his suspicion that the Widow Carson was indeed Irene, he would not have any sort of particular qualms about being asked to do something like this.

_ Is it Irene? _ All he could see from his current position was Mayor Lemieux's top hat. He loitered beside a garish floral arrangement for a few moments, trying his best to get himself under control. He was Arthur Morgan, the  _ enforcer _ of the Van Der Linde gang for fuck's sake! He had survived countless trials before this,  _ surely _ he could manage speaking to a woman at a party!

Arthur growled under his breath, clenched his fists, and slowly approached the group by the fountain.

"- _ cheré _ , you must continue with your story! Ferdinand, stop  _ interrupting _ , I beg of you!" The mayor was chiding one of the other men standing there, his voice luxuriantly heavy with a French accent. 

The other man, whose complexion was bright red (whether from drink or passion, Arthur could not yet discern), scoffed at the mayor. "Her tale is rife with inaccuracies, Henri! We  _ knew _ Willie, he would never-"

"Unless you  _ too _ visited him in his bedchambers, Ferdinand, I suggest you keep your observations to yourself."

_ Irene _ . Oh Lord,  _ Irene _ , flowers woven into her hair like she was a damn forest spirit out of those old Greek tragedies. It was like time had stopped for Arthur as he took in every detail. God, he was startled all over again by just how  _ much _ he had missed her. She was in that dress, the one she had worn in Valentine. But wonder of all wonders, she appeared to be fully-laced this evening. Arthur swallowed hard, tearing his eyes away from the shapely curve of her hips. The way her corset held and molded her body into something  _ devastating _ , a weapon normally concealed from him by men's clothing…

Well, he  _ was _ a red-blooded American. Unfortunately right now, he had to try his damnedest to temper that  _ particular _ truth about his nature.

"It ain't complex, Lemieux, and only an idiot like  _ you _ , buddy, would try to make it so!" Ferdinand continued over what Irene had been saying, sloshing the liquor in his glass dangerously close to that beautiful dress. Irene's brown eyes were fairly  _ crackling _ with restrained fury, color high in her cheeks as she endured being near this loathsome character. She looked  _ magnificent _ . Arthur wished he could kiss her, right then and there.

"I will not deny idiocy sir, but perhaps now is not the time." The mayor tried to settle Ferdinand down by placating him, however the outspoken man didn't seem to get the hint.

"Typical  _ pansy! _ "

"You are  _ drunk _ , Ferdinand." Lemieux stated disapprovingly.

"I'm not drunk, you fool...but  _ this _ man! This man  _ loves _ damsels-"

"Ferdinand, your behavior is becoming  _ unseemly _ ." Irene said through clenched teeth. Arthur had a nasty feeling that he knew  _ exactly _ what Ferdinand had been about to say before Irene cut him off. "Not to mention utterly  _ irrelevant _ to the topic at hand. Must you constantly inflict your heinous presence upon polite company?"

"Hey  _ hey _ , you are  _ pretty _ drunk." Arthur chose that moment to intervene, draping his arm nonchalantly around the belligerent man's shoulders and pinning Ferdinand's arm behind his back after a momentary adjustment. "What's say you and me cool off?" He 'suggested' cheerily, strong-arming the drunkenly-protesting Ferdinand off to the gazebo at the rear of the courtyard. Giving the man a rough shove, Arthur stated (much more rationally than he felt like being at the moment), "sit down and  _ calm _ down. Count to a thousand. Then, you can rejoin the party."

...

"Thank you sir!" Henri said sincerely, shaking Arthur's hand upon his triumphant return sans one loudmouth. 

"My pleasure." The tawny-haired man replied with a boyish grin. Lord, if she had thought he looked dashing  _ before-! _ Irene was tempted to feign a swoon. Arthur had clearly been blessed by a trip to the tailor, of that much she was certain. The black suit coat accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow waist in equal measure, leaving him imposingly proportionate in a way that was  _ incredibly _ tasteful. She was sorely pressed to keep her eyes from wandering, realizing vaguely that Henri was introducing himself.

"Henri Lemieux. I hope you are enjoying my party?"

"The mayor!" Arthur said with an air of surprise, as if he had not known. Irene didn't buy it for a  _ second _ . Though she was grateful for his timely arrival, she had to wonder why he was here. Did Arthur Morgan have friends in high places?

"Allegedly!" Henri replied with a modest chuckle. "And you are?" 

"Tacitus Killgore, at your service." Irene blinked.  _ That _ was unexpected. What an elaborate fake name, but he said it so confidently! "This is quite a place you've got here." Arthur continued the conversation, his drawl a touch off. Like he was deliberately attempting to soften it.

"It's not mine, and the city is  _ horribly _ in debt, but we still can put on a good show." Henri gestured after a moment to the man on his right. "Do you know Evelyn Miller, Monsieur Killgore?"

"My Lord. The writer?" Arthur appeared legitimately awed now, shaking Mr. Miller's hand. Irene could understand that awe, Miller was a revered and respected author amongst the folk in the untamed wilderness of the new States. She herself had been simply soaking up the man's educated palaver like a sponge until Henri urged her to begin sharing her trials.

"Ah, and of course! Our unexpected but  _ most _ welcome guest, Madame the Widow Irene Carson." Henri introduced her with an elaborate flourish of his hand, making her laugh. "She has been regaling us with the exciting tale of her return to life! It is fascinating to hear."

" _ Enchanté _ , Mister Killgore." Irene said, smiling and offering Arthur a quick curtsey. Again, out of fashion, and a  _ bit _ difficult with the added restriction of her corset, but the quaint gesture had always been preferable to a nod as far as she was concerned. If only that bath girl hadn't been so  _ thorough _ in lacing her!

Arthur bowed, took her hand and touched it to his lips chastely. "The pleasure is  _ all _ mine, Mrs. Carson." Her murmured, blue eyes boring into her own. Irene suddenly felt incredibly warm, despite her no-doubt constricted blood flow. "A return to life, you said? Have you been travelin' abroad then, ma'am?"

"Oh no sir, I'm afraid it's been nothing quite so delightful as that." Irene demurred. "Rather trying, in all honesty."

"Truly, it is a  _ sordid _ affair. Her own  _ husband _ , claiming she had perished!" Henri shook his head, looking appropriately distraught. "Ghastly. Then, Willie marrying that  _ other _ woman so fast, and her turning out to be a murderer...well, it is like something from a cheap novel!"

"How awful that experience must have been for you, my lady." Arthur said softly. "Might I listen to the rest of the story, or are you weary of tellin' such a tale?"

"I'm afraid there is not overmuch left to tell, Mister Killg-"

"Please, ma'am, call me Tacitus." He insisted, his eyes bright with their secret joke. 

Irene couldn't help her smile in reply. "Of course, Tacitus. But as I was saying, there is not much to tell. I have spent most of my exile cowering in a cabin out in the mountains, shivering to death or roasting alive." She had tried so very hard to dumb down the tale, doing her best to make it seem like she was still the frail and fragile Mrs. Carson.

"It sounds like you have endured quite a bit of hardship, ma'am." Arthur's lips quirked upwards at the corner, his smile faint but still there. "It's a miracle you managed to survive! A delicate li'l thing like you, all alone out there in that  _ dangerous _ wilderness." His voice dipped low enough to make her shiver. "Especially with such... _ reprehensible _ folk about these days."

_ Like me _ , his gaze seemed to say, the heat in that look reminding Irene of when he had kissed her at the stables.

" _ Exactly _ what I said, Monsieur Tacitus! Irene, you were so rash! I know that you believed you had no recourse, and I must apologize for my own complacency regarding Willie's abhorrent behavior, but  _ surely _ there was another way!" The mayor scolded her.

"I am so very sorry, Henri. Next time I am kept prisoner in my own house, I'll be certain to send you a messenger pigeon." Irene retorted wryly, making Henri sputter as Arthur outright laughed. Ah, that laugh! She would have gladly borne her troubles in silence had she known such a delightful sound would someday grace her ears.

Irene was struck anew by the providence of her whole situation while she watched Arthur do his best to play at high society. She had not often been afforded the privilege to observe  _ him _ , instead of the other way around. His blue eyes caught the amber light quite marvelously, his jaw shaded with stubborn stubble that gave him just the  _ tiniest _ hint of wildness, of untamed danger. Enough to make him appealing to many of the women present. Irene wasn't sure if she should be flattered or concerned about the amount of time he was spending with the mayor and, by proxy, herself. 

She was growing increasingly lightheaded from the squeeze of her corset and was  _ just _ about to ask Henri if she could impose upon his hospitality for a brief reprieve to adjust herself when abruptly, the butler approached to inform Mayor Lemieux that he had  _ another _ phone call from the tycoon, Leviticus Cornwall. 

Henri waved the man off as fireworks began to erupt overhead. Irene, noting how Arthur watched the butler depart a touch more  _ narrowly _ than one might in polite company, dared to place a hand on his arm. " _ Tacitus _ , my dear, you play your cards too openly." She whispered, her words making Arthur grimace. "May I ask you to escort me upstairs? I fear all this excitement has me feeling a bit short of breath."

…

"Tacitus-" Irene gasped his fake moniker at the top of the stairs, groping the wall for some kind of support. "I realize this is  _ very _ forward of me, but I must beg for your assistance in loosening these damned--" She paused for air. "Lord, I fear I will swoon. This is so  _ tight _ -"

"Okay, easy now." Arthur murmured, privately marveling at how large his hands looked on her cinched waist when he steadied her. "I gotcha', Irene. It's alright." 

She didn't appear to be exaggerating for his sake. The walk up the stairs had nearly done her in, it would seem. She was  _ incredibly _ pale, and trembling slightly. He  _ had _ assumed that she was just playing along for  _ whatever _ reason, the two of them stalking the butler for fun or profit, but it was evident now that she had no such ulterior motives.

Arthur picked a door at random, immensely thankful that the room behind it was a parlour of sorts. Irene all but collapsed on the chaise, her fingers clumsy with the tiny buttons that ran the length of the front of her dress. Arthur rushed to assist after he made certain to lock the door, feeling a little frantic at the way Irene was wheezing for air.

"You're okay, you're okay, we'll get you loosened up." He tried to calm her (and himself), working on the next button in the line. "Front or back lacing, Irene?"

"Back." Her voice had gone pitchy. "I--she laced me  _ very _ well."

"I know, shh, gimme' a minute." Arthur soothed, willing  _ himself _ to relax. This wasn't any sort of terrible scenario, this was  _ mundane _ compared to how his life usually was! How the hell was it that his hands were shaking more over getting a woman undressed than being shot at by the law?!

The two of them managed to peel the dress down over her shoulders far enough to let Arthur maneuver his hands in between her chemise and corset to loosen her laces. Slowly, carefully, he worked his way down, gradually slacking the binds. He didn't want to just undo the whole damn thing, that would leave her to endure the remainder of the party with her bosom unfettered and as appealing as that was to  _ him _ , he knew that the gentry would tear her apart for it. 

"Any better?" He asked after a moment, relieved when she nodded. 

Then, "I didn't think you would actually help me." She admitted softly, holding her dress closed in the front. Arthur was stunned. "I assumed you were going to follow his retainer." Irene turned to look at him after a moment. "Why  _ are _ you here, Arthur?"

Lord, he felt like a sinner on Judgement Day. Pinned by the weight of an angel's stare, all he could do was try to tell her the truth. "My...associates and I are...well, we need  _ leads _ , Miss Irene. Senor Bronte, in exchange for our... _ services _ , cut us a deal for invitations to this ball. And uh, I suppose that's it." He said awkwardly. "I didn't expect  _ you _ to be here, I figured you'd have headed for the Grizzlies by now."

Irene shrugged. "I thought long and hard about what you said during our last meeting. Me not taking everything that wasn't nailed down, that is." She squared her shoulders stiffly, trying to straighten her dress out. "I decided it was time to take back what's rightfully mine, propriety be damned."

Arthur put his hands on her shoulders, slipping the dress back down to reveal bare, freckled skin. He breathed her name, ducking his head to drop a kiss on the nape of her neck and feeling her shiver. His next words caught in his throat. How could he  _ do _ something like that to her? 

_ A wealthy benefactor _ , Dutch had said, like it was an afterthought. Like she wasn't a person, but a resource. A  _ tool _ .

Because that was all she  _ would _ be to Dutch, Arthur realized grimly. A silly woman for them to string along, someone with deep pockets and a trusting heart. She wasn't  _ Irene _ to Dutch or Hosea, she was the Widow Carson. A naive young widow, beautiful and lonely and ( _ possibly _ ) about to come into some significant money. The perfect target for a good old-fashioned seduction.

Lord, he had almost  _ preferred _ feeling like prey earlier to this sudden cold understanding of how his  _ companions _ (and even he himself, to a lesser degree) saw people like Irene. 

"You look beautiful tonight, Irene." He murmured instead. 

"Don't  _ tease _ me, Arthur." Irene retorted sharply. "I am an utter mess. I look like a child playing dress up amongst all the immaculate gowns down there." She then sniffled, the noise almost too soft for him to hear. "I very nearly fainted dead away because I haven't worn one of these blasted things in almost a year! What kind of proper lady can't even endure the simplest of corsets?" 

"The kind that doesn't need one to turn every damn head in the room." Arthur said gruffly, a hand beneath her chin tilting her head back so he could see her face. Her brown eyes shone with frustrated tears. "You're  _ beautiful _ , woman. Why the hell don't you believe it?"

"A majority of my marriage was punctuated by people who felt the need to inform me that I was attractive 'for my age', Arthur. I'm  _ old _ , I'm nearly  _ thirty _ . No man wants a wife that old. My father was hard-pressed to marry me off when I was  _ twenty-four _ , can you even imagine what folk might say to a man who would court me in my thirties?" Irene shook her head despondently. "I...I don't know what I'm doing, Arthur." She confessed suddenly. "I am  _ terrified _ . If I put effort into taking whatever might be left and it turns out to all be for naught, I don't know what I'll do!" Her hands twisted in her skirts. "I'll be back to where I was before." 

Arthur wasn't certain he understood what the issue was. She had seemed  _ happy _ out in the wilderness. Hell, she had  _ insisted _ upon her happiness. What had brought on this change, this desire for stability and financial security? He was thoroughly confused. "I don't know what to tell you, Irene." He said finally. 

"I know, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even brought it up." Irene apologized. "It's hardly your concern, _Mister_ _Tacitus_." She tried to tease, daubing at her eyes with her sleeve and then starting to button her dress back up. "Just the worries of a silly woman whose age is catching up with her, I suppose."

Arthur caught her wrist to stop her, pressing a kiss to the inside of it like he had done so many times before. Her pulse tripped and hammered beneath his lips, galloping wildly. "Irene, you are  _ beautiful _ ." He sighed, his fingertips grazing her exposed collarbone when he palmed her shoulders from behind. "Everyone down there knows it.  _ I _ know it. You could have your pick of fellers downstairs if that's what you're so worried about."

"It's such a fleeting thing, Arthur." She whispered. "When it is gone, if I cannot reclaim any of Willie's estate...I'll have nothing and no one."

Arthur wanted to die. He wanted to grab her shoulders and  _ embrace _ her and say  _ you'll have me, God damn it! _ But he knew he couldn't promise her that, as much as he wanted to. Hell, getting truly involved with him would no doubt cut her life short. That fear was what kept him from speaking, no matter how badly he wished to assure her. Even after the tender moments they had spent together in the wilds, now, when it would have made a  _ difference _ , he was unable to offer any sort of  _ meaningful _ comfort. 

Arthur closed his eyes, cursing himself roundly. "You don't mean that, Irene. The mayor seems-"

"Henri was perfectly willing to overlook my abuse when Willie was funding his campaign. All of them down there were complacent." Irene interjected, her tone one of barely-bridled fury. "Politicians and the elite are of no use to me, Arthur, for I am of no use to them."

_ Fair enough _ , Arthur mused. "So what are you gonna' do, then?"

"I'm going to  _ try _ and bring my case to the attention of the courts. Willie was an only child, which is the sole reason I may still have a chance to receive something for my trouble." Irene's shoulders slumped and Arthur dug his fingers in, silently working out a few of the knots she seemed to have created in her muscles. 

"I hope it goes accordin' to plan for you, then." He said finally. 

"As do I." Irene took his hand, leading him around to the front of the chaise. "I  _ have _ missed you, Arthur Morgan." She said simply. Sweet and honest. 

He was a fool.

Arthur felt like cheap gold leaf as he greedily buried his hands in her hair, sending one of the vanilla blossoms tumbling to the floor when he did. He felt like a veneer of class spread thin on his thieving bones, he felt like a  _ liar _ . This  _ vision _ of a woman, this divine being who trusted him so readily...

This time would be the last. It would have to be. If Dutch found him out, if his pre-established closeness to  _ the Widow Carson _ was discovered, Arthur knew that Dutch would tell him to bleed her dry.

And Arthur, the kind,  _ loyal _ man that he was, would do it. Because loyalty was everything.

…

Arthur was troubled. Even through her own worries, Irene could see that. She threaded her fingers through the shaggy locks at the nape of his neck, whispering his name. "What's wrong, Arthur?"

"I...I can't keep doin' this, Irene." He confessed, those blue eyes stormy with emotion. "I  _ can't _ keep draggin' you down with me. You deserve so much more than a man who you don't really  _ know _ , a man who's here an' gone again. It ain't right."

"I don't much care what I deserve, Arthur Morgan." Irene said tartly. "If you want me, I am here. You have yet to cause me harm in any of our endeavors, which is more than I can say for my prior partner." She tugged at the back of his neck, bringing their foreheads together. "If you want me, Arthur, I am here."

" _ Irene _ ," he grated out, cupping her face, "I'm a bad man. I've done a whole  _ heap _ of turrible things. I ain't the kind of man that you should be lettin' anywhere  _ near _ you."

"And  _ despite _ all of that, I'm beneath you on a chaise in the mayor's upstairs drawing room." Irene replied dryly. "Honestly Arthur, I thought you knew by now that my intuition is quite dreadful."

"Irene-" 

"You are remarkably poor at displaying any sort of reluctance, Mister Arthur." It felt like icy fingers were creeping their way down her spine. Had he finally decided that  _ whatever _ they were, it wasn't worth his time? She could hardly blame him, of course! She was a currently-penniless widow. She had offered herself freely in the past; he owed her nothing, just as she owed him nothing.

"Because I  _ ain't _ reluctant!" Arthur exclaimed. "I'm... _ Christ _ , Irene, I want this. I want  _ you _ , so much that it  _ hurts _ . But the life I lead ain't got a chance in it for a happy, fairytale endin' where I get to live out my days in peace. I have people I need to take care of, and you have a life of your own to finally start livin'." He stated firmly. "So for both our sakes, we can't... _ continue _ ."

"At the very least," Irene begged, her thumbs stroking the familiar scar on his chin while she peppered his face with light pecks, "may we still be friends, Arthur?"

"Irene…" Arthur breathed, tilting his face to the side and kissing her until she was dizzy. "You've given me so damn  _ much _ , woman. Given me  _ hope _ , and beauty, and music. My friendship ain't worth spit compared to what you've done for me."

Irene shook her head, blinking back her tears. "I'm the one that ought to be saying that, Mister Arthur!" She protested. "I wish there was more I could do to repay the kindness you've shown me."

"Miss Irene, all the payment I ask for is that you go and live your life to the fullest extent. Take tenfold from that son of a bitch what he took from you." Arthur swept back some of the curls on her forehead, the gesture achingly tender. "Do that, and you'll be paid up, alright?" He murmured.

Irene took his hand and kissed his knuckles, feeling the pronounced lines of old abrasions on the skin when she did. "Don't give up, Arthur. There  _ is _ someone out there who will be worth it to you." She told him, her voice trembling a bit as she struggled to get the words out. "Someone who will see you for how kind and loyal you are and instead of taking advantage of it, they'll  _ cherish _ it. Guard you close to their heart like a jealous little secret." Her smile was tentative, "that's what I would do, anyway."

Arthur cursed under his breath, shoving his thigh gracelessly between her legs. " _ Irene _ ." He said her name and it was an oath, a prayer. Whether for himself or for her, she couldn't say. 

"Yes, Arthur?" Irene replied softly. 

"If you hear about me in the future, if…" he hesitated, clearing his throat as he drew his index finger studiously down the side of her face. "If somethin' happens, don't pay it any mind, alright? Remember me just like this. All gussied up in this frippery, lookin' like the world's most uncomfortable trained bear." He tried to laugh, but it sounded hollow. "Can you do that for me? Please?"

"As long as you remember  _ me _ like I was in the wilds." Irene was pleased when he smiled. "All filthy, with twigs in my hair."

"The Irene of my dreams has always been the one from the wilderness." Arthur confessed quietly. "This is  _ lovely _ , don't get me wrong." He continued, giving her skirts a playful tweak. "But you out in the forests, playin' your violin for the wolves an' howlin' at the moon... _ that's _ the Irene I think about." The man cleared his throat again after a moment, looking away. "Now, let's get you put to rights. Buttoned up and all that. I figure it'll be best if I go back first. Hopefully folk won't be too suspicious. Shit, I don't even know how long we been gone for." He swore, grumbling a little as he struggled to help her with the tiny buttons on her dress.

Irene giggled, feeling a bit hysterical. "Oh heavens, what they will think of me! My husband hardly cold in the ground and now I'm enjoying an absolutely scandalous  _ rendezvous _ with a handsome stranger. I'll be the talk of Saint Denis for weeks!"

"Woman, if you don't quit your funnin'..." Arthur huffed, a wry grin pulling at his mouth seemingly in spite of himself. 

Irene rubbed her forehead against his own, smiling a bit wistfully. "Shall I ever see you again, Mister Arthur?"

"For your sake, I sure as hell hope not." Arthur replied bluntly. "Bad luck seems to follow the folks I hang around with."

…

He hadn't  _ entirely _ lied. He did leave ahead of her. However, he didn't return to the party immediately. 

Instead, Arthur ducked into the study he had seen that butler enter when he and Irene were making their way up the stairs. A few minutes of pointed rummaging and a jimmied lock on the desk drawer later, Arthur Morgan ( _ or rather, Tacitus Killgore _ ) was the proud owner of various interesting,  _ incriminating _ documentation.  _ Leviticus Cornwall _ . Arthur barely resisted the urge to spit on command when he so much as  _ thought _ the man's name. 

Footsteps passed by the door and he froze, pressing himself back against the bookcases until whoever it was had descended down the stairs. 

Hopefully, this information would please Dutch to the point where he would forget about Widow Carson. Arthur just wished that  _ he _ could forget about Widow Carson.  _ Irene _ . 

Maybe...maybe if she was still in the drawing room, he could explain. Maybe there was still time. It would be dangerous, of course, but she deserved the truth. She deserved to  _ know _ why he couldn't promise her anything aside from a life of fear and misery. Shit, at the very least she deserved to know  _ why _ he was cutting her loose!

Arthur left the study and retraced his steps to the drawing room, his heart in his throat and her name on the tip of his tongue.  _ Irene-- _

But she was gone. 

The chaise was vacant, lonely in the cluttered room. Through the open French doors to the balcony, the sounds of the party below filtered in like something from another world. He stalled in the doorway for a moment, uncertain of what to do. An object on the floor by the chaise caught his attention and Arthur stepped forward. 

It was one of the vanilla flowers from her hair, the blossom sitting forlorn and abandoned next to the leg of the chaise. He scooped it up with all the care someone like him could muster, tenderly examining the fragile, bruised petals. Then, Arthur slipped it into the pocket of his suit coat.

Much,  _ much _ later that evening (technically the next damn morning), when he was bedding down at Shady Belle, he delicately extracted the worn flower and proceeded to tuck it between two blank pages of his journal.

_Irene_ , he wrote at the very bottom of the page, and then, _in another life, if I was a better man, we could have been so happy together._ _Instead, I have to push you away to keep you -safe-._

_ What a fool I am _ .

The following page bore a loose, flowing sketch of her on the chaise, staring up at him while she clutched the front of her gown closed at her chest. The fierce look on her face that he had tried valiantly to capture on paper didn't hold a candle to the real thing.  _ Irene Craft, _ he wrote, then scribbled out her name and instead put, _ -Politicians and the elite are of no use to me, Arthur, for I am of no use to them.- _

_ Mayor Onry Lemieux's party _ .


	6. Winter's Cold, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, it's fix-it time. Spoiler warning for the epilogue of Red Dead Redemption 2!
> 
> [!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains brief mentions of pregnancy and general peril. Stay safe!]

"I want the fellow you've got in that cell. The one you're sending up the river." The mustachioed man demanded without pretext. "You boys give him to me and I'll make it worth your while, plus a touch extra." 

"Listen mister, I don't know who you are or where the hell you came from, but that feller has  _ five grand _ on his head. I doubt you've got enough scratch to make  _ anythin' _ worth our while." The senior bounty hunter sneered, his boots still propped up on the table in front of him.

A sack hit the table, the mysterious man undoing the drawstring slowly. "I've got six grand right here, genuine bill and coin. Count it all if you feel like it, or if you just want to touch it." His smile was  _ mean _ , like the slash of a knife across his face. "Split between the two of you? Three grand apiece. Five hundred extra each. You boys really  _ so _ well off that you can turn down five hundred window dressing?" The man queried.

"Hell." The bounty hunter gawked at the money, then over at his partner, and finally back up at the man in front of them. "Jesus mister, you know this feller will probably die even  _ before _ he reaches justice, don'cha? He's real sick. He was nearly dead on the mountainside as-is, and he ain't gotten better. Hasn't so much as opened his eyes in days!" 

"Hey hey, if he wants him and he's willin' to pay  _ that _ much…" The other bounty hunter trailed off, looking greedily at the bag on the table. "I ain't that inclined to turn the bastard in to the Pinks if I can make a little extra."

"But we was gonna'-"

"Or," the mysterious man sighed, "I suppose I could just take my money and be on my way." He began to retie the drawstring but the first bounty hunter stopped him. 

"Hold up there,  _ friend _ . We didn't even catch your name. Normally in polite society, a feller makin' an offer has the courtesy to introduce themselves."

The man leaned in, sweeping his hat off of his head and offering a stately little bow. "Ah, where are my manners? Gentlemen, my name is Doctor Franklin Craft. Junior of course."

The younger bounty hunter openly stared at him. "Ol' Doc Craft had a son?" He asked hesitantly. "All I ever heard about was the messy business that went on with his daughter's husband." 

"Truly, a sordid tale. And she is actually the reason why I'm here." Doctor Craft ( _ junior, of course _ ) bowed his head in respect. "Before Irene...made her brief return to polite society, she chanced across the very fellow you have in that cell." Craft's grip on the brim of his hat tightened visibly. "He stole something from her. Something... _ irreplaceable _ . And while I may be unable to get it back, I can assure you that this man will be afforded all the  _ comforts _ I can offer him while he lingers on this earth." He snarled sarcastically. "Now, do we have a deal?"

...

**_Two Days Prior_ ** **...**

"Annie, you're a  _ terror! _ " Irene laughed, scrubbing at the little girl's grubby face with the corner of her apron. "What have I told you about playing in the mud? Only in your mess trousers and  _ only _ outside, right?"

The child nodded, offering a beaming smile. Irene probably would have fallen for it, had the girl not tracked mud all over the modest dwelling. Anna was only a hair past one year of age, but she had been racing around from the moment she was able to walk. Irene was hard-pressed to keep track of her on her own. 

It had been nearly two years since Irene had seen Arthur. Once she realized a seed had been planted during one of their pleasurable trysts, she took great pains to tie everything up neatly. Returning for her deceased husband's money had been her boldest move yet, but there was little the courts could do to dispute her claim to his property. Willie had purported that she was dead so he could remarry, and yet here she stood before them, hale and hearty. It had caused  _ quite _ the uproar, if only for the unapologetic way that she had addressed everyone's shortcomings in dealing with her reports of abuse. 

The railroad bonds he had hoarded so jealously became her failsafe, and it was with careful consideration that she began to invest in various ventures. Subsequently, there was the business of selling off  _ every last thing _ . Every ounce of property, every stick of furniture, down to the hideous pewter candlesticks in the dining room. 

Irene found herself politely turning down suitors left and right. Now that she was a woman of means, it appeared that men were willing to give her the time of day once more.

It wouldn't be long before she would have  _ real _ difficulty hiding how her body was changing. Irene decided to purchase a simple cottage up in the East Grizzlies, and it was there that she began making a home. A  _ true _ home. A home of her own.

She planted herbs, chopped enough firewood to last a lifetime, and went fishing and hunting in the nearby woodlands. The self-sufficient woman continued to live in relative isolation, only making the trip to Annesburg when she desperately needed a midwife. All the research and overheard lectures from her father couldn't have prepared her for labor, and she would be eternally grateful for the patient woman who had led her through the agony to emerge on the other side one daughter richer. 

She named the baby Anna, her heart full to bursting when the tiny babe clutched Irene's index finger with all her strength.  _ Little Annie Craft _ , her eyes just as devastatingly blue as her father's and her hair soon growing into a mess of tawny-blonde corkscrews.

Anna held out a small rock to her mother, the muddy offering obviously one of contrition. "Sorry?" The child questioned.

Irene sighed, rumpling her hair and accepting the pebble with a laugh. "Go get washed up, little one. It's nearly dinnertime."

Anna nodded, trotting back outside to the small bowl on the steps that Irene had repurposed as a child-sized washbasin. 

Irene took the small stone and wrung out her dishrag, scrubbing at the rock to reveal whatever it was that had caught Anna's eye with this particular specimen. It appeared to be quartz, the dull glitter in the last of the day's sunlight more than enough of a reason in a child's mind to acquire it. Irene smiled a bit sadly down at the small stone on the counter, then scooped it up and placed it carefully on the windowsill with the rest of its contemporaries. A few more pebbles, several dried up leaves and flowers, and the  _ real _ prize, a snake's shed skin. All the treasures a small child could muster up and then some, proudly displayed.

"Well! Gracious me, where did you come from, little cherub?" An unfamiliar man's voice drifted in through the windows and Irene jerked her head up, startled and dismayed to see a dapper-looking fellow on one knee in the mud of the front yard, her daughter's hand in his own as he presented her with a small paper flower. 

The woman fairly bolted for the door. "Annie, love, come here!" She called benignly, trying not to distress the child. "What have I told you about strangers, wee miss?"

Anna nodded, gifting the man one of her signature smiles but not moving. "She is a beautiful little girl." The stranger mused, rising to his full height and moving his hand to Anna's shoulder, keeping her where she was. "Her eyes, in particular! What a lovely shade of blue they are." He studied Irene standing on her front porch for several long moments. "I assume she must get them from her father, since yours are such a pristine hue of amber."

"Indeed she does." Irene replied evenly. "Please unhand my child at once, Mister…"

"Trelawny, ma'am! Josiah Trelawny, at your service."

"Mister Trelawny, release my daughter and you may leave my property unharmed."

"I had dealings with a man who has eyes like your little girl's, Miss Craft." He continued breezily like she hadn't spoken.  _ How did he know her name? _ "Strong fellow, secretly altruistic, bit of a temper.  _ Fiercely _ loyal." Josiah paused dramatically. "And  _ currently _ , almost out of reach."

_ Arthur _ . Irene knew she must have let something slip in her expression, for a knowing smile blossomed on Trelawny's face. The man let Anna go, and she toddled across the front yard to the steps. "What  _ is _ it that you want from me, Josiah Trelawny?" Irene snapped. "Does he have debts that need paying?"

"Heavens, no! That man has paid his debts twice over again." Josiah took a step forward. "Might we converse indoors, Miss Craft? The things I am about to tell you are matters that warrant a certain amount of... _ discretion _ ."

Irene hesitated, then reluctantly nodded while beckoning him to approach. Trelawny followed her indoors, not speaking again until they had settled down at her small kitchen table.

"Arthur, you see, is a friend of mine. Though I'm certain he would argue to the contrary." Josiah explained while he helped himself to the grudgingly-offered biscuits and fresh raspberry jam. "Currently, however, he sits in a filthy cell waiting to be judged. The bounty on him was very substantial, Miss Craft,  _ very _ substantial indeed." He settled back in the chair, biscuit crumbs marring his damask waistcoat. "Five thousand dollars, by all accounts."

" _ Five thousand? _ " Irene repeated in horrified dismay. 

"Yes. Now, that is undoubtedly distressing enough. That is no simple room and board, ma'am! A man may work his whole life for funds such as those." Josiah leaned forward. "And yet there is something far worse that hangs like the sword of Damocles over his head, Miss Craft. Arthur is  _ abysmally _ ill. He is plagued by that lunging pestilence, the consumption. Lord only knows how long he's had it, but it is  _ ravaging _ him now in incarceration."

_ Consumption _ . Irene had no doubt that she was white as a sheet at that news. "Why are you telling me this, Mister Trelawny?" She mentally congratulated herself on keeping her voice steady. 

"The locals mentioned you are a woman of skill. That you know certain... _ remedies _ , though you are not permitted a doctorate so instead you must fall back upon the moniker of hermit witchery." Josiah steepled his fingers. "Then of course, there  _ are _ the rumors I've heard about you being the long-lost Widow Carson. There was much ado about her in the polite society...why, over a year ago at this point! How time flies." His eyes were narrowed. "The dead woman who came from the wilds and returned to them just as fast, carrying with her a fortune and  _ apparently _ ," those eyes darted to the oblivious child who was currently playing on the hearth rug, "an outlaw's brat-"

Irene was on her feet in a flash, her palms meeting the table to cut the man off before he could continue. "You shall  _ not _ speak so rough in front of my daughter, Mister Josiah, or I will make you regret opening your mouth. Mind your  _ tongue _ while you sit at  _ my _ table and take my hospitality hostage," she seethed. "What  _ is _ it that you want from me? Did you simply come here to chastise me for having a child out of wedlock? I fear you're a  _ touch _ too late to stop me on that front."

"From  _ you _ , my dear woman? Nothing at all!" Josiah exclaimed, seeming appropriately cowed by her display of backbone. "You misunderstand my intent. I am here because I am in search of a gentleman named  _ Frank Craft _ ." His contrition gone, the man was watching her like a  _ hawk _ . "I came across mention of him in Arthur's journal. Frank is... _ instrumental _ to a plan I have devised, you see."

_ Shit _ . "Why don't you tell me about this... _ plan _ of yours and I'll see whether it's even worth Frank's time." Irene challenged him, folding her arms across her chest. Anna buried her face in Irene's apron, the child obviously picking up on her mother's discomfort. 

...

**_Back In The Present..._ **

"Oh well  _ done _ , sir! Well done indeed!" Josiah praised her roundly when she returned to their meeting spot with Arthur in the saddle in front of her. "You have performed  _ admirably _ , Doctor Craft!" 

"Don't forget your half of the bargain, Trelawny." Irene said sharply, peeling the false mustache off with a grimace. "I expect that money back in my hands in two days."

"But of course! A few more investments in the Kilgore mines and I shall have your payment safely returned." 

Arthur, who did not even seem to be  _ conscious _ , started coughing and wheezing like his lungs were fit to come out. Irene didn't miss Josiah's look of extreme worry. "I'll do my best with him, Trelawny." She murmured. "I can't promise anything. He seems in a bad way."

"The coughing started back in...April, perhaps early May of last year if I recall his journal entries correctly. It's a miracle he's endured this long." Trelawny stated bluntly. He shifted in his saddle, "speaking of his journal, I have that very item with me. Should he recuperate, I imagine he would miss it immensely." He tossed her the leatherbound book, and then tipped his hat. "I'll be off. Thank you for your assistance, Miss Craft."

"Just get me the money, Josiah." She retorted, pulling her scarf up over her nose and mouth before spurring Bluster off in the direction of home. Arthur's mare trotted along behind them serenely, the other animal having always possessed a much more even temperament than Bluster. 

Irene pressed her ear to Arthur's back after a time, listening to how ragged and labored his breathing was and her heart broke. She prayed like she never had before the entire ride home, prayed to the Good Lord to let her save this man.

_ Please God,  _ **_spare_ ** _ him, he's suffered enough _ .

As she rounded the final bend in the road before the last thickly-wooded section, she was startled to see an enormous stag barring her way. The beast was a strange amber-white, boasting a many-pronged rack of antlers that would have left many a hunter awestruck. It practically  _ glowed _ in the moonlight, nigh ethereal as it turned its head and studied the woman with one liquid, pitch-black eye.

Irene cautiously reined in Bluster, who didn't seem concerned with the massive creature.  _ That _ of all things was what made her uneasy. Bluster, the perennial coward, was  _ wholly _ unbothered by the hulking apparition that currently sat in front of them. Chase was unphased as well, the mare actually lowering her head to graze the sparse grass. Bluster's breath fogged out around his nose, the air already sharp with the promise of winter, and Irene realized with a jolt of confusion that the stag had no visible haze from its breath around its head. 

The deer that towered head and shoulders over her even while mounted turned in the direction they had been heading, and then set off at a stately pace. It stopped after a moment,  _ looking back at her _ as if to say, " _ well? _ " 

Irene clicked her tongue, coaxing Bluster to a careful trot. The stag appeared satisfied with this arrangement, soon picking up speed. It led her on a strange path, a bit more of a winding one than she would have taken, but Irene felt weirdly confident that this odd... _ vision _ was here to help. 

Off in the woods to the left, sounding like it was  _ dangerously _ close to the deer track she would have taken, she heard a furious crashing of branches and the yowling of a cougar as it chased down some unfortunate prey. 

Irene looked wide-eyed at the stag and found that it had turned its head to stare at her once more. Bluster whinnied uncertainly, beginning to fidget as he doubtless caught the noise and  _ smell _ of the big cat, and Irene urged him on a little faster. 

_ Jesus _ , encountering a cougar at this hour, her with nothing but her revolver and the limp weight of Arthur further burdening Bluster? They would have been dead for certain!

"Thank you." She breathed, feeling foolish for being disappointed when she received no reply.

The stag finally halted on the rocky hilltop adjacent to the little hollow her stead rested in, still not an ounce of breath fog around its nose or issuing from its mouth, and Irene realized after a moment that it was waiting for her to continue onwards. 

"Thank you," she said again softly, grateful even through her disbelief.

The deer folded its legs to lay in the grass, as if to keep an eye out for danger while Irene dismounted and led the two horses down the steep incline. Arthur started to cough again, the noise sharp and hollow as his breath rasped in and out.

"Nearly there Arthur, nearly there." Irene soothed, knowing that he was probably unable to hear her in his delirium. "We'll be home…" her words trailed off when she turned to look back at Arthur and saw that the stag had vanished. "...soon."

Bluster whickered at her quietly after a moment, breaking the spell of her confusion.  _ Right _ . Work to be done.

...

" _ The queen will never win the game, for Rumpelstiltskin is my name! _ "

Arthur couldn't even bring himself to wonder what the  _ hell _ he was hearing. Some sort of distant nursery rhyme, and he wasn't sure if he was imagining the sound of a small child laughing fit to split their sides.

_ Christ _ , he was tired. His body ached and his lungs seared like hellfire. Throat raw from coughing, tongue sour with the iron taste of blood. He had really,  _ really _ thought he would be dead by now. Guess his body had other plans, the  _ bastard _ .

He went back under, muddling around in the red haze of semi-consciousness. It seemed like someone was  _ always _ forcing him to take some kind of medicine. Bitter, scraping his battered throat like knives all the way down. Maybe it was poison. 

Some strange salve for his chest, reeking so potently of  _ mint _ that his eyes watered even though they were closed. It reminded him of the ointments Hosea had soothed the horses with, the damn man probably pious as a pope from all the anointing he did. 

A ladle full of lukewarm water pressed to his lips and he drank as best as he could, though some of it ended up trickling down his chin. His jaw was physically  _ sore _ from the rib-shattering coughing he had struggled through; it was all he could do just to pry his teeth apart. 

_ Christ _ , he should be dead. He had been surprised enough when he managed to survive getting a  _ hole _ blown in his shoulder without losing the limb to gangrene, but this was a whole new  _ level _ of bullshit. 

What little life he had left after enduring Dutch's madness, Micah had done his best to beat out of him.

Maybe they wanted him healthy for the gallows. Put on more of a show if he was strong enough to raise his head. Arthur didn't have the heart or breath to tell  _ whoever _ this was that their care was in vain. He was so far gone…

Nobody could save him. Not even God himself could save Arthur Morgan at this point. 


	7. Winter's Cold, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains emotional distress and self-loathing. Stay safe!]

The first time Arthur really felt... _ aware _ , like he was actually  _ inhabiting _ his body instead of floating above and slightly to the right of it, he realized that he could hear chirping birds. A breeze stirred his hair; there must be a window open nearby. 

It dawned on him after several moments that he could breathe. It still  _ hurt _ , it pained him, but he wasn't hacking and wheezing every second. Dread flooded his soul then; either he was dead, or the law was in the process of meting out the rope for his noose. Bit of a raw deal for all those hellfire preachers if eternal damnation was only some downright  _ mild _ discomfort (at least after everything else) and a lazy little breeze.

His whole body still felt like it weighed too much to move. The idea of opening his eyes was a distant, faint notion; barely a fledgling consideration in the back of his mind. Arthur was more than content to lay just wherever it was that he had fallen, sunshine wavering in dappled patches across the insides of his eyelids.

He dimly noticed that fabric was covering his mouth and nose. A bandanna, or some kind of mask? To keep him from spreading the infection, he surmised pragmatically. Through the material wafted a scent from his childhood, the  _ alive _ smell of freshly-cured hay. Beneath it was the ever-present odor of manure, the crisp tingle of pine. So he must be in the mountains somewhere. 

Odd. Last he knew, he was being shipped off to the city to be read his last rites. Had they decided to let him convalesce in the wilderness, drag him back from the clutches of death and  _ then _ set his backside afore the law?

Very odd indeed. But then again, justice had always been more of a  _ performance _ than a true enforcement of moral integrity.

_ I sound like Dutch _ .

He drifted off again. Just  _ thinking _ was exhausting, like wading through swamp mud.

More medicine. Balm for his chest. A stew, lip of the bowl pressed to his mouth so he could slowly slurp it up. Rich, meaty broth, soothing his throat. How many days had it been?

He couldn't even bring himself to move when he felt the familiar press of a flat blade against his neck. Hot water soaking into his skin, a warm cloth moving in circles to scrub away whatever grime was around his nose and mouth. The person was meticulous, sure strokes carefully ridding the man of the stubble he harbored on his face. How long had it been since he shaved?

Christ  _ alive _ , Arthur was tired. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to live or not. This caretaker, whoever they were, clearly wasn't letting him go without a fight. But he was so  _ tired _ . 

He wavered for what felt like a lifetime, hovering at the edge of eternity in the green fragrance of curing hay. It was safe here, at any rate. Nothing would harm him in this peaceful tomb. He could rest until he began to feel like he was in control of his body again, and one fateful day, Arthur Morgan finally realized that he wanted to see how much  _ worse _ living could manage to be.

His eyes opened slowly, squinting against the near-blinding illumination of sunset that played pink against the unfinished beams over his head. Lord, just doing  _ that _ much had taken the wind out of his sails. Maybe he  _ was _ already dead. 

His eyes rolled shut wearily, blinking open again what felt like moments later to find the place dark. Night had fallen. Time was slipping past him, it would seem. There was a faint taste in his mouth: venison stew with wild carrots, if he had to guess. He didn't even remember eating.

He squinted in the blackness, trying to force his eyes to adjust so he could at least take in his surroundings before he lost consciousness again. 

Hay.  _ Everywhere _ . He appeared to be in a loft of some kind, bales stacked neatly all around the tick he laid on. Night sounds filtered in through the open window, bats squeaking and the booming call of an owl telling him that the hour must indeed be late. 

Arthur lapsed back into senselessness once more. He dreamed of hearing violin music and catching sight of a  _ massive _ , pale buck through the window. It watched him from a far-off hillside, ears flicking back and forth to catch every sound. 

He dreamed of Irene. Her smile, her eyes, the kisses in the tent that they had shared...

_ Maybe, maybe _ sat like a block of lead in his gut. 'Maybe' was all he had ever had. A chance, a mirage. Pretty words from men and women who had made him feel  _ useful _ , needed.

So he had poured from himself until he was empty and it  _ still _ hadn't been enough. 

He was a fool. What was it that Irene had said to Jamie? " _ I'm not letting anyone else dig my grave  _ **_and_ ** _ usher me into it _ ." 

Arthur, in contrast, had practically handed Dutch the shovel on a silver platter.

_ I gave you all I had. _

…

He was aware that someone was nearby, and he managed to open his eyes again for a brief moment. Long enough for him to hallucinate that it was  _ Irene _ tending to him, Irene giving him whatever horrendous medicine it was and washing away the bitter taste with hot soup and small sips of tea. He must  _ truly _ be long gone, mad with delirium or fever or the consumption that had wracked his chest until he felt paper-thin. 

How would she even  _ be _ here? How would that have even happened? There was no way. 

Arthur almost loathed himself for choosing to live at that moment, because he was  _ clearly _ missing a few more screws. He knew that some agues raged so strong they could burn the brain right out of a man and he feared that was the case with him. 

Not that he'd had much brain to lose in the first place.

_ Christ _ , he did wish she was here. He wished he could take her hand and never let her go again. 

Allowing her leave that final time was a regret that had haunted him even more prominently than his bitter failure with Mary, for all that he knew there was nothing he could have done to make her stay with him. Irene had been on her own too long, flown too far and high to ever be tied down to some old,  _ miserable _ bastard again.

Mary had come to know him under false pretenses, and she had never truly reconciled herself with it. In a way, Arthur hadn't either. He had known she wasn't his from the very beginning, had known that he was playing a part or living a lie whenever he was with her. It never would have worked out, and it never did. 

But Irene, despite their deceptive start, came to him with a certain honesty. The haphazard performance of masculinity had done little to hide her true nature, the kindness that she claimed to see in him so freely displayed in her as well. It  _ also _ didn't hide the burdens she carried, though he hadn't understood the sadness in  _ 'Frank's _ ' eyes when they had spoken.

The trials she had gone through...he at least had the gang, but she was wholly alone. She had endured, like a pine tree rooted on a crumbling and wind-whipped bluff. Storms of life howling all around and yet…

And yet, when he had last seen her, she had held herself proudly in Lemieux's mansion, unshaken. The guts and wherewithal that had seen her thus far would continue, and Arthur had wished her nothing but the finest of luck even as he had sent her on her way. 

…

There were folded clothes on the floor beside him when next he stirred, and on top of them was a note. Arthur had no idea how long it took him to sit up, never mind move his arm, manipulate his fingers into picking the note up,  _ unfold _ the note to read it…

Lord, living certainly seemed to require a lot of  _ steps _ . 

_ Arthur, _

_ Not sure if you'll really be awake today, but I've noticed you moving around a bit of your own volition. Left the clothes in case you feel up to getting dressed. I am uncertain if you'll recall, so I'll remind you that the waste bucket is in the far corner _ .

The note was unsigned.

Arthur huffed out a breath, clearing his throat experimentally. He reached for the union suit on the top of the pile, planting his face in the article of clothing with a groan as his head suddenly felt too heavy to support. "C'mon Morgan." He encouraged himself, the words thick in his mouth. Shit, how long had he been out for? It was like he had forgotten how to speak.

Just pulling the suit up and over his legs was a task of Herculean proportions. Arthur doggedly kept fighting the urge to pass out, the desire to lay back down and let time zip by again. He had made the choice to live and by  _ God _ , he would follow through with it even if it killed him.

The longer he worked at getting dressed, the easier it became to keep his eyes open. Socks on over the suit, shirt, pants. His suspenders hung limp at his sides, but he  _ did _ tuck in his shirt as best as he could after he relieved himself. 

Boots. Boots, one tipped over on the space beside the ladder, the other within reach of the bed.

Next, climbing down the ladder. Mercifully the loft was not particularly  _ high _ . The whole barn seemed rather small as far as barns went, obviously originally built with one stall. A second one appeared to have been hastily grafted onto the building at a later time. 

Arthur had to take a breather at the base of the ladder, clinging to it just to keep his balance. His knees felt like they were made out of jelly. Had his boots always been this damn heavy?!

He floundered onward after a moment, grateful for his hat as he emerged into the blinding sunlight of the outside world. 

Arthur rubbed his eyes, nearly losing his footing as he did so. He had already been uncertain of the reality of his current situation, and this idyllic scene in front of him wasn't helping matters! 

A small paddock stretched out on the left, and a cozy-looking cabin was nestled into the green, flower-dappled glen alongside the barn he had just emerged from. Arthur staggered to the paddock fence for support, draping himself over it. From the shadow by the barn, a shape stirred. He forced himself to focus on it, his eyes widening when the horse meandered lazily out into the sunlight to graze.

" _ Chase! _ " Arthur rasped, his voice rough and cracking from disuse. The mare's head jerked up and she looked around. His heart leaped in his chest when she whinnied excitedly at him, trotting across the paddock and bumping her nose against his chest. Arthur held her tightly, cupping her muzzle and scratching beneath her jaw. "That's my sweet girl, my  _ good _ girl." He murmured, feeling foolish for getting choked up. 

There was an explosive snort to his right and a familiar pink nose snuffled over his shoulder. Arthur squinted, turning his head to the side and realizing that it was  _ Bluster _ . The horse whickered, mouthing at the sleeve of his shirt. 

Arthur Morgan was speechless. He  _ must _ be dead. How else could he have his horse, and  _ Irene's _ horse besides? He sat there mutely for God only knew how long, just petting Chase with his eyes closed to luxuriate in the sensation of sun on his skin. 

Behind him, the wind carried faint sounds to his ears, and he flinched when he caught a child's high-pitched squeal of laughter. Just where the hell  _ was _ he, if he was indeed alive? What buffoon would nurse someone like  _ him _ back to health, yet leave him unbound  _ and _ unguarded? Something was very odd about this whole scenario.

Arthur turned and leaned back on the fence, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sun as he looked up at the ridge of the glen. There was an abrupt flash of motion to the left on the edge of the gully, and he watched a woman that he  _ desperately _ wanted to recognize chase after a child. The little one was fairly shrieking with mirth, scurrying away from their pursuer until they flopped down dramatically and allowed themselves to be caught.

It felt like his heart had left his body, the damn thing  _ soaring _ and shattering all at once. A  _ girl _ , it was a little girl, her hair the color of a pale buck. Irene scooped the child up, laughing breathlessly and tossing her into the air before spinning the two of them in a dizzying circle. 

_ Irene _ .

Arthur swallowed hard. Fate was indeed a cruel mistress if this was the vision he was greeted with upon making his decision to live! He continued to just slouch against the fence, silently observing the duo as they frolicked at the top of the ridge. Irene had flowers in her hair just like she had at the Mayor's little  _ soiree _ , and he realized dimly that her dark brown curls were much longer. Just how much time  _ had _ he lost?

He finally mustered up the strength to wave at them and he liked to  _ think _ that Irene went still out of happiness. In a moment she caught the child up and fairly  _ bolted _ down the hillside, her skirt hiked around her knees as she ran. 

" _ Arthur! _ " 

Christ,  _ Christ _ he wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready for the sight of her with a babe on her hip, the agony of  _ maybe, maybe _ that ripped at his insides. In another life, it might have been his child that she had been playing with. In another life, this might have been the home that they had built together.

But instead, she had gone on and made a fruitful existence without him. He couldn't,  _ wouldn't _ blame her for it.  _ He _ had cut  _ her _ loose, after all.

Irene came to a halt inches away, her chest rising and falling from the effort of her sprint. "Y-You--you're up!" She panted, her smile burying itself in his ribs like a blade.  _ Christ _ , his heart was too weak for this.

The child in Irene's arms gawked up at him with crystal blue eyes and he tried to muster up a smile, startled when Irene embraced him tightly. He felt her fingers dig into his back, and then her shoulders quivered while she buried her face in his chest. "Oh no, c'mon now Miss Irene." Arthur said hoarsely. "I ain't worth all that fuss, it's okay."

...

"Mama?" Anna asked tentatively. "Mama okay?"

"Mama's fine, love." Irene managed to say, kissing her child's forehead. "Just  _ very _ happy is all. You remember my friend Mister Arthur, right?"

"Sick." Anna replied, her attempt at a fake cough making Arthur chuckle. "Better now?"

"I'd reckon so, little miss." The man drawled hoarsely. God, that  _ voice _ . Irene hadn't realized just how much she had missed him. She had seen him every day, of course, nursing him back to health, but he hadn't been conscious for most of it. "S'pose I have your mama to thank for that."

Irene noticed him glancing over her shoulder, like he was expecting someone else to show up. "Your friend, Mister Trelawny--"

Arthur chuffed out a breath through his nose, making Anna giggle. " _ Friend? _ Man's a cockroach in a waistcoat." He groused.

"Yes, he mentioned that the two of you may not be as close as he posited. Nonetheless, it's thanks to him that you're here now, alive."

" _ Really _ . Huh. So I am alive, then. I wasn't shoah. This place is…" Arthur gestured vaguely around. "S'beautiful, Miss Irene." His tone was melancholy. "Like a dream."

"I'd like to think I chose well, Mister Arthur. It hasn't been easy, but the two of us have made it work." Irene said proudly, nuzzling her nose against Anna's. "My tough little frontierwoman."

"Just...what, you an' the baby?" Arthur asked, his confusion evident. 

"Yes. Who else would there be?" Irene replied with her own question, brow furrowed. Arthur blinked down at her. His eyes darted momentarily to Anna, and Irene bit her lip, wondering whether he would put it together immediately. 

"I-I jus'...I figured there might be a third person, is all." Arthur stammered. 

Irene couldn't help her sad smile, shaking her head at him and extending an arm. "Come inside, Arthur. It's nearly suppertime anyways."

It was so  _ strange _ , finally having him in the main room of her little house. She had thought about this scenario more times than she could count. Just the walk across the front yard thoroughly tired him out, and the man seemed more than content to doze in one of the kitchen chairs while she put the finishing touches on the evening meal. Obviously it would take time and care for him to regain even a  _ fraction _ of his former strength. He had been bedridden, or something close to it, for nearly five months!

Anna played noisily on the floor with a few carved horses that Irene had made for her when she was teething, their forms scored with scrapes and marks from the event. The child didn't seem apprehensive about the large man currently nodding off in the chair by the table, which had Irene feeling hopeful. Maybe, just  _ maybe _ …

"Dinnertime." She said softly, "put away your toys, love." 

Anna pouted, holding up a finger. "One?" She bargained, clutching her 'favorite' horse to her chest. "One for Art'ur." 

"Oh it's for Arthur now, is it?" Irene teased, wiping her hands off on her apron. "Go on then, you scallywag."

The little girl fairly beamed, placing the horse with a laughable amount of care alongside Arthur's arm. Then, she impatiently bounced in place as Irene fetched the riser for her chair so she would be level with the table when she sat. 

"Ah ah, go wash up! You know the rules." Irene instructed the eager child, sending her on her way to the porch.

"She is just the cutest damn  _ thing _ ." Arthur mumbled, almost like he was talking to himself. His fingers idly played along the curves of the little horse by his fork. "How old is she?" 

"A touch over two. She was born during the winter." Irene watched Arthur nod absently, and what she was about to say got caught in her throat as Anna toddled back inside.

Arthur accepted the coffee Irene poured him with all the gratitude in the world, his eyes closing in enjoyment as he took his first sip. " _ Ah _ , that's good," he sighed. "Ain't nothin' like a decent cup of coffee. Feel like life is comin' back to me."

"Well, don't forget to save room for dinner." Irene buttered Anna a little piece of bread and scooted it across the table to keep her occupied while she loaded two plates with corn, mashed potatoes and a spoonful of precious pork gravy from tomorrow's slow-cooking dinner. "Corn is Anna's favorite, right love?"

Anna nodded, blue eyes wide as she munched on her bread. "Mine!" She announced sharply, scrunching up her nose when Arthur chuckled at her. 

"Sweeting, be  _ polite _ . There's more than enough for all of us, you know that!" Irene chided her daughter, rumpling the little girl's hair fondly after she placed Arthur's plate in front of him. "Always enough here." 

Anna's plate, as usual, required a bit more preparing, so she brought it along with her own to her chair beside the child. Anna immediately started digging into the mashed potatoes as her mother carefully shucked the kernels off the cob in neat rows. "Th'nk y'Mama." Anna said through a mouthful of food.

"You're welcome Anna, but slow  _ down _ . No one will take it from you." With a touch of amusement Irene noticed Arthur visibly slow his pace in response, the man obviously used to wolfing his food. "Drink your water, Anna."

Arthur ate mainly in silence, aside from a few appreciative grunts. He couldn't contain his laughter when Anna started to imitate his sounds, the man apologizing for his poor table manners. "Forgive me, Miss Irene, I've always been awful at eatin' in the presence of polite company." 

"Mama says I'm a little piggy." Anna informed Arthur, seeming confused when he burst out laughing again. 

"If you're a li'l piggy, Miss Anna, then I must be the biggest boar alive." He said once he managed to rein himself in. 

…

Arthur lingered on the front steps, the lantern in his hand ready to light his way back across the yard. He felt  _ exhausted _ , stuffed with good food and more than ready to get a full night's rest.

So  _ what _ was he waiting for?

Many thoughts had gone through his head during dinner. How beautiful Irene still looked, how good of a mother she clearly was. Anna was a precocious little thing, those blue eyes bright with the possibility of mischief. 

Her eyes…

Arthur didn't dare to hope that one of he and Irene's little  _ diversions _ had borne fruit, if only because it would throw into question his oh-so-noble attempts at prevention. Had he truly tried as  _ hard _ as he could to be safe, or was there always that selfish desire in the back of his mind waiting to be acted upon?

He jumped guiltily when the door opened and Irene stepped out, half-turning to face her with a brittle grin. "Howdy ma'am. Little one safely abed, I take it?"

"After a bit of deliberation, yes." Irene sighed, her posture weary. "She's very opinionated for someone who cannot manage eating a carrot unless it has been sliced into wheels. I  _ do _ fear for the future, Arthur."

_ The future _ .

Arthur cleared his throat. "Irene, is...did  _ we _ …?"

She put a hand on his shoulder, silencing his stammering with a sad little smile. "Later, Arthur. Right now, rest is what you need."

He wanted to deny that, but it was fairly impossible to do so. He was nearly asleep standing up as it was. "Tomorrow?" He bargained through a yawn.

"Tomorrow. I promise."


	8. Summer's Warmth, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains emotional distress, vivid recollections and self-loathing. Stay safe!]

Arthur dreamed of the vigil he had stood beside Kieran's grave, Chase's large head resting on his shoulder. Bitter, sorrowful words had twisted up in his throat until he just shoved his face into the horse's mane so he could unleash a body-rattling sob. He had left a handful of bulrushes crisscrossed over the grave. Kieran had always plied the horses with whatever treats he could scrounge up, mushrooms or bulrushes or the rare luxury of sugar cubes. 

Kieran O'Driscoll, Kieran Van Der Linde, but in the end he had died Kieran Duffy. Just one more hideous taunt sent to the Van Der Linde camp from the O'Driscolls, one more life lost in the feud of two proud men who had wronged each other. 

Arthur dreamed of the nightmare of Guarma, the way his body was wracked with feverish chills on that godforsaken island, blistering sun beating down on him and he had just forced himself onwards, ignoring it. 

Micah  _ mocking _ him, Dutch's merciless slaughter of that elderly woman.

Stumbling across Hosea and Lenny's graves on his long, slow trek back to Shady Belle from Van Horn and it just hitting him like a bullet to the gut that they were  _ gone _ , truly gone. Like Kieran, like Sean.

When he and Charles had found that young woman in the Murfree hellhole, Arthur had sworn for several long, panic-stricken seconds that it had been Irene. The  _ fear _ he had felt, the agony, he had nearly been sick with guilty relief when she stepped into the light and her eyes were blue. The enforcer would never say how dangerously close he had come to pitching himself at her feet and begging her forgiveness for being  _ grateful _ that she wasn't who he had thought she was. 

And the girl's mother in Annesburg trying to  _ pay _ him, like he had done something incredible. Like he wasn't a monster himself, jaded with loss and becoming more and more certain that Dutch was hellbent on reaching their collective doom.  _ Tahiti and mangoes _ had never sounded so unappealing.

Molly, struck down with no mercy, ' _ she knew the rules _ ', they  _ all _ knew the  _ damn _ rules.

Collapsing out of the blue in the streets of Saint Denis on his way to meet up with Sadie so they could rescue that  _ fool _ Marston, coming back around with a kindly stranger directing him to the doctor, the sterile  _ reek _ that permeated the office as the learned man dropped the bad news on him with all the grace of a boulder on his chest.

_ Tuberculosis _ , and the noose that had been around his neck since Blackwater finally snapped taut to strangle him. 

His slow, shambling walk down the street as whatever that doctor had given him to take the edge off made him hallucinate that the damned deer was back, the majestic creature sauntering through the crossroads in front of him like some kind of divine herald.

Or hellish omen.

After that was just the long, torturous slog as Dutch did his best to drag them all down into the fiery abyss with him.

Strauss,  _ Strauss _ , preying on fools, on desperate men with pregnant wives, on folk he knew  _ damn _ well couldn't pay him back! When Arthur had finally had enough of being the bastard's lackey he  _ roared _ at the man to  _ get the hell out! _ , every ounce the commanding king of legend that Sean had mockingly likened him to.

_ Hearts are so rarely pure. But then again, they are also rarely impure _ , that sister had said. Her wise words had given Arthur pause, the man speechless beside her on the bench. He wasn't used to such  _ ambiguity _ from religious folk. Normally it was either saccharine-sweet pandering about how he could  _ still be saved _ , or self-righteous wrath as he was told that his perdition would last eternity for every rotten thing he had done.

Rightly so, too! He was a terrible man.

The imagery of the deer kept haunting him. Arthur didn't understand it, he couldn't manage to wrap his head around  _ why _ he kept dreaming about the deer. The deer or Irene, her violin music lilting fae-like through the twilight of his consciousness nearly every night as he struggled to stifle his coughing.

_ Black lung, black lung _ , Micah mocked and sneered.

When Ms. Grimshaw's end came, it was the final signature on the decree of his damnation. Violence begot violence begot  _ violence _ and Arthur could scarce imagine how grisly his own demise would be.

Pinkertons flushing them out of the cave like hounds after quail, he and John fleeing--

The sound of Micah's labored breathing, blows landing over and over, the two of them circling one another on the edge of Purgatory itself until Arthur's broken body had finally given out.

In the final act of his life, Dutch had met his eyes and then departed wordlessly with Micah in tow. The sting was a far-off sensation, dulled by inevitability.

_ I gave you everything I had _ .

Arthur had thought he was dead; had thought the fight was well and truly kicked out of him. That incorrigible,  _ stubborn _ spirit of his, the spite and loyalty and  _ grit _ flickered and faded like a candle in a draft. He barely remembered the sunrise, his last rambling thoughts before consciousness deserted him fixated on the fact that he could  _ feel _ the deer from his dreams, pacing  _ just _ outside his field of vision... 

But of course, he couldn't forget the price on his head. He was still worth  _ something _ to someone, even if he was hovering at Death's door.

…

Irene didn't sleep a wink, tossing and turning until the wee hours of the morning. Finally, when she checked her old pocket watch for the sixth time and saw that it was four o'clock, she gave up. 

Irene got out of bed, got dressed, and went to Anna's room to wake her. "You're coming fishing with Mama, little fawn." She whispered while the child yawned. "You can even go back to sleep on the shore, alright?"

"Mmhm." Clearly still half-asleep, Anna nodded, rubbing her eyes. 

Irene gathered up her fishing gear and her daughter, leaving a note in case she wasn't back by the time Arthur managed to rouse himself. For his sake (and perhaps a bit for her own as well), she hoped he slept in. 

It wasn't until she reached the riverbank that the lunacy of the whole situation really hit her. He was the father of her child, she had nursed him back from the brink of death itself, and yet she feared what the reveal might bring! Hadn't she done enough worrying over the last few months? 

Maybe she was more worried about whether he would stay simply out of believing it was his  _ duty _ to do so.

If nothing came of it, if he...wanted nothing to do with her now that the two of them had inadvertently brought a new life into the world, it wouldn't change anything in her existence. She would live out her days in peace, far from society. Arthur Morgan would no doubt carry on in the same manner that he always had, though perhaps just a  _ touch _ more cautiously. 

She didn't let herself think of the alternative. It was best that she not get her hopes up. After all, he had been the one to put their meetings to an end. Knowing what she knew now, further clarified by what Trelawny had mentioned, it seemed as though Morgan was trying to protect her from the grisly fate the rest of their band was barreling towards. She could not fault him for cutting her loose, no doubt he had thought he was doing the best thing for her. 

In a way, it had been. 

Irene hooked several fish as she pondered, reeling the small offerings in absently. Anna was young. Young enough that should Arthur decide to leave, she probably wouldn't even recall him given enough time. So it was Irene's own selfishness that she was hung up on, her own silly feelings and emotions. 

Somewhere along the way, during their free and easy couplings, she had fallen in love. With  _ Arthur Morgan _ , a man she could readily admit to knowing precious little about. It seemed so foolish now, what had she been  _ thinking? _

The woman smiled wistfully as the sun rose.

She hadn't been thinking at all, there was the truth of it. She had enjoyed herself for the first time in her life, consequences be damned. 

_ Besides, when it all comes down to it _ , Irene mused as she glanced over at the sleeping form of her child,  _ I would trade a thousand Arthurs for one sweet little Anna. _

Anna woke up again around eight, clamoring for her breakfast. The two of them walked hand-in-hand back to Irene's stead, Anna swinging her arms and singing some tuneless ditty only she knew the words to. 

Arthur was awake and upright on their return, the man supporting his weight with the rough-hewn posts of the paddock. Chase looked for all the world like she was listening to him as he muttered to himself, the mare's ears pricked to catch his voice.

Clearly Irene wasn't the only one who had missed him.

Anna bolted forward, crowing in triumph. Normally Chase tended to keep to the far side of the paddock, where it was more shady. "Up,  _ up! _ Wanna' pet!" The little girl demanded, straining to reach Chase's nose.

Arthur, frail and pale as he was, certainly gave it a good effort. He got the child nearly two inches off the ground before he failed, visibly panicking as he dropped her. Mercifully she didn't seem to notice, the little girl just thinking they were playing a game. 

She was laughing, " _ again again! _ ", waving her arms and Arthur shot Irene a look so  _ terrified _ she was barely able to restrain her mirth.

"Annie, how do we  _ ask? _ " Irene prompted her daughter, then propped her boot up on the lower cross-beam of the fence and patted her thigh. "Come along, up you get!" Anna threw herself over her mother's knee, grappling Irene's skirts before managing to reach Chase's nose from her new vantage point perched on her mother's thigh. 

"Mister Art'ur no lift me?" The little girl queried after a time, giving the tall man a quizzical look. 

"It's gonna' be a while before I'm liftin' much of anythin', Miss Anna." Arthur answered her ruefully. 

"But Mama can lift?" The child continued curiously. 

"Your mama is the strongest person I know. She can lift you, me, that horse, the barn…" Arthur rattled on, listing more and more outlandish things as Anna giggled. "I once saw her lift a  _ whole _ riverboat with her pinky!" Arthur claimed. "Weren't even breathin' hard neither!"

"Mama can do all that?" Anna asked, those blue eyes wide as she tilted her head back to stare up at Irene. 

"Absolutely!" The woman replied firmly, then smiled. "I'd do even more for you, my little fawn."

"She's a real strong woman, Miss Anna, real strong. You'll be just like her someday." Arthur murmured, his gaze gone melancholy again.

In response, Anna seized Arthur's hand and bunched up her tiny fist to make a 'muscle' in her arm for him to feel. "Strong!" She insisted, her expression fierce. 

"You  _ shoah _ are, what you need me for around here?" Arthur humored her with a grin. "I'd just get in your way at this point." Irene realized that he wasn't talking to the child anymore, for all that his eyes were on Anna. 

"We are more than happy to have you, isn't that right Annie?" The woman stated, making Arthur glance up at her. The raw look in his gaze caught her off-guard.

"Mmhm," Anna agreed with a decisive nod. "Make you better!"

"S'pose if I had to pick a place to convalesce, I couldn't find a nicer sanatorium even out east." 

…

Oh Jesus, Mary  _ and _ Joseph. 

Was this little baby girl  _ his? _ Did he even  _ deserve _ that sort of joy? She was  _ two _ already, he had missed her first steps, her first words…God, it  _ always _ seemed like he was too late. From his first child Isaac with that sweet girl Eliza, to Mary, and now  _ this _ .

He and Irene sat on the porch of her little cabin, the woman having made a delicious fish fry for breakfast. It smelled amazing, but Arthur's stomach was too knotted to eat. He fumbled with his fork a few times, casting about for an opening to ask Irene the all-important question on his mind.

Anna unwittingly offered him his opportunity, the child scarfing her breakfast and then begging to be permitted to play in the puddles in the yard. Irene nodded after a moment, collecting the child's plate and then instructing her to don her mess trousers.

The little girl tore off to do so and her mother chuckled quietly. "She is such a menace. Always rummaging, stomping, finding new things to squish or examine." Irene remarked. 

Arthur couldn't wait a second longer, abandoning his plate as he turned to look at her. " _ Irene _ ," he said her name sharply, trying to keep his voice low. "Is that girl my child?"

Irene took her sweet time replying to him, chewing a mouthful of flaky fish. "What happens if I say yes, Arthur?" She asked, her own words soft. 

"I...I want you to know that I did my damnedest to not--I mean, when we... _ hell _ , I didn't want you pinned down like that bastard Carson wanted." Arthur swore grimly. "I didn't want to saddle you with somethin' you ain't asked for, Irene."

"Will you leave? If she's yours?" Irene was picking at her food now, refusing to look at him. Anna carried on stomping in the puddles across the yard, her giggles punctuating the silence. 

Arthur inhaled to respond and accidentally sent himself into a coughing fit, hacking and snorting in the least glamorous way possible. "It ain't fair that you've had to put up with me for so long, with the... _ shadow _ of me, even. I'm barely a fraction of the feller I once was. Can't even lift the little one," he mumbled after he managed to get the spasm under control. "But...but even if she ain't mine, even if you've been uh,  _ knowin' _ other men, it doesn't matter to me, okay? I got no business commentin' on your personal affairs." 

Arthur felt like he would burst into flames from how hard he was flushing; he usually wasn't this  _ nervous _ when it came to speaking what was on his mind. 

"Feels like I've gotten a second wind here, and I just...I never stopped thinkin' about you," he confessed. "Dreamin' that I would come out the other side of this and that I'd still have a damn  _ chance _ to see you again."

Irene was merely listening to him ramble, her face neutral. Meanwhile, Arthur was floundering. He had no idea what the  _ right _ answer might be. Did she  _ want _ to be left alone? Should he entirely abandon these thoughts, these selfish wishes of his?

"I spent most of my younger years tryin' to put on a respectable front so a specific woman and her family would deem me worthy." He vaguely recalled being strung out on drink in Valentine, crying against Irene's stomach as she stroked the back of his head to soothe him. "It was never enough, and I thought that was it. That was the end for any of those dreams I had. Then I...I met you." Arthur took her hand, rubbing his thumb over the pulse that beat in her wrist. "As much as it killed me, I had to...I didn't want you to be trapped in my mess. I felt--I-I mean, I..." 

_ I love you, I love you,  _ **_say_ ** _ it, you cowardly fool! _

"If I do this, if I let you stay...you can't go  _ gallivanting _ off into the wilds, understand?" The woman informed him sternly, her back ramrod straight. "I  _ will not _ have my daughter getting attached to a man who cannot be there for her, Arthur."

His heart twisted uncertainly in his chest and Arthur hesitated, teetering on the precipice. "She  _ is _ mine, isn't she?" He finally asked, his voice faltering. At her hesitant nod, the man's throat closed up. "Jesus." Arthur rasped, trying and failing to blink the tears away before they could fall. "A daughter. A li'l baby girl. I never thought I'd... _ Christ _ almighty Irene, I n-never--" 

And in an incredibly masculine display of self control, he dissolved into hiccupping sobs.

…

Irene had tried to steel herself for his reaction, fearing the worst. This however, was...manageable. 

"Hush, Arthur." She chided him, feeling her own lower lip quiver. He caught her up in an embrace, his once-powerful frame fragile and trembling with every gasp for air. His fingers clutched at her sides and he buried his face in her shoulder, his hat tumbling to the ground. "Arthur, it's alright." Irene's arms slipped beneath his own and she tentatively hugged him back, just letting him weep and sniffle into her neck. "There's no need to  _ cry _ ."

He stifled a cough in the crook of his elbow, pulling away after several moments. "'Course, a'course. M' fine." He choked out, mopping at his face with his bandanna.

"Art'ur, Mama!" Anna called from the paddock, her tiny hands cupped together around... _ something _ . "Art'ur see!" She stumbled to the steps, where she opened her hands just the tiniest bit. 

A wee toad sat in her palm, the creature looking a bit put-out over their current situation. 

"Caught yerself a prince there, Miss Annie?" Arthur asked, rattled by another coughing fit when she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Nuh Art'ur, a  _ toad _ . Not a frog." Anna corrected, giving him a fierce scowl. "No kisses for toads."

"Little miss," Irene interjected sharply, raising an eyebrow. "Mind your manners. I know you're not that rude."

"B-But...is a toad!" Anna protested, waving the aforementioned critter around.

"I know that, Annie, but you need to be  _ polite _ when you talk to folks. Now, what do we say?"

"M'sorry, Art'ur." Anna mumbled, depositing the shaken toad into her mother's waiting hands and then scuffing her boot on the ground.

"Oh don't worry about it, li'l Miss Annie. No harm done. You were right, after all." Arthur assured her with a tight smile, his eyes clouded with emotion. "Guess I got a lot to learn about that sort of thing, I ain't much in the habit of readin' fairytales." 

Irene seized the moment of distraction to usher the toad into the shelter of the shade beneath the steps. Then, she brushed her hands off on her apron and got to her feet. "Well Anna, you know what day it is. Come along, little fawn." To Arthur, she continued, "it's Monday, which is also wash day. Be a dear and strip your bed, would you?"

…

Arthur hated that he was absolutely  _ drenched _ in sweat over something so mundane! He recalled enviously the sheer amount of times he would trek back and forth across whatever camp they had set up, lugging sacks of maize or a fresh kill over one shoulder with the greatest of ease. 

He had nearly been bested by sheets and bedding, of all things. This boded poorly. 

He laid on his back for several long minutes after he had managed to finish remaking the tick up in the hayloft, doing his best to catch his breath again. He knew he should be grateful for surviving the consumption in the first place, but there was a nagging fear in the back of his mind that threatened to fester.

What if this was as good as he got? What if he never really... _ recovered? _ His clothes fairly hung off of him; his entire body had become so frail. He was  _ winded _ from making his blasted pallet! He would be a dependent, a sponge on Irene, a  _ leech _ . 

_ That _ thought had him cringing, and he forced himself to sit back up. Everything ached. He had pushed himself too hard, that was all. Arthur knew in a logical sense that he couldn't just... _ expect _ to leap out of bed ready to wrestle a grizzly so soon after a five-month stint of  _ nothing _ . It just pricked at his pride.

"Arthur?" Irene's head appeared at the top of the ladder, the woman giving him a quizzical look as she took in his rumpled state. "Would you like to bathe? Water's still hot."

_ Bathe _ . Lord, a bath sounded heavenly right about now. His sore muscles practically screamed for it. "Depends on how much I'd have to pay to get you as my bath girl." He replied without hesitation.

"I'm a luxury, Mister Morgan." That  _ would _ have driven a knife into his belly, had she not punctuated it with a saucy wink. "I'm afraid you'll have to do a bit extra to earn a helping hand in your washtub."

Arthur grinned ruefully, shaking his head. "Forgive me ma'am, my mouth ran away from me."

"Oh I'm certain!" Irene laughed, reaching up to swat his knee. "Come along now, before the water cools."

Stripping down in the privacy of her bedroom was...interesting. Arthur studiously avoided looking at the mirror she had as he shed his clothing, folding everything and leaving it by the door like she had asked. The woman already had clean clothes waiting for him on the chair beside the tub. He wouldn't get better service in a Saint Denis hotel!

Lowering his body down into the still-warm water was absolutely  _ heavenly _ , for all that he nearly scalded himself. Irene must have topped off the tub before he came in, bless her for it. 

A lump of soap sat primly atop a wash rag on the mat next to the tub, and Arthur knew he ought to get started before the water grew too tepid to be comfortable. But there was no harm in taking a moment or two to relax, right?

He lolled his head back against the lip of the tub, his eyes wandering lazily to the mirror beside the door. It was safe to look at now, as it was tilted in such a way that he wouldn't see himself. The last rays of the day's sunlight reflected off the looking glass, the beams warming the rough-hewn floorboards from their usual pale gold to a rich, honeyed brown. 

Arthur wondered idly if Irene had built this place by herself. He didn't doubt it; she was a resourceful woman. 

There  _ was _ still the question of how she had managed to get ahold of him. Oh certainly, she had mentioned Josiah. But there had been an omission of further details involving his rescue that he found odd. He would have to ask her after he was done with his wash. Maybe over supper.

He groaned, straightening his back and scooping up the soap. He'd best get to scrubbing if he wanted to be presentable for the mealtime.

…

"Arthur?" Irene knocked on the door to her room, a touch worried when she received no answer. "Arthur, it's nearly time for dinner." Still nothing. She took a gamble and turned the handle, easing the door open a hair. 

Arthur appeared to have fallen asleep in the tub, and Irene barely managed to stifle her chuckle. She closed the door behind her gently, tiptoeing to the side of the tub.

He didn't look so worn when he was sleeping, she decided. The furrows smoothed from his brow and the lines around his eyes eased a bit, his mind temporarily free of the burdens that plagued him during his waking hours. Irene settled onto the floor beside the tub, stroking her fingers through his damp hair. "Arthur," she called softly. 

He hummed low in his chest, those blue eyes blinking open as she continued to comb through his thick locks. " _ Well _ , ain't you a sight for sore eyes." The man drawled, a lazy grin on his face. "Prettiest bath gal I've ever seen." Arthur slotted his fingers through her own, pressing a kiss to her raw-washed knuckles. "These poor hands of yours...Irene, you'll work yourself to the bone." He chided. "Once I get back up to full strength, I promise you'll want for nothin'." 

_ Nothing at all, _ his gaze continued, the heated stare sending those old but  _ oh so familiar _ waves of delight through her body.

"Arthur…" Irene was at a loss, biting her lower lip and breaking his stare by dropping her eyes to the floor. "We will have to wait and see. Once you're back on your feet." She allowed finally.

"It's a deal, Miss Craft." Arthur swore, his jaw set in a determined line. 

_ Once you're truly well again, I doubt I'll be able to hold on to you _ , Irene thought sadly as she rose to stand once more. "Supper is nearly ready. Don't take too long, otherwise Annie will polish off your helping!" She teased, her heart not really in it.

Arthur cocked his head, appearing like he was about to question her further, so Irene seized the moment to slip back through the door and close it behind her.

She leaned back against the door, staring up at the ceiling while exhaling hard. Her throat felt  _ suspiciously _ tight and Irene shook her head at herself, annoyed.  _ I'll be alright. Annie and I have been fine, and we can carry on just fine even without Arthur _ .

If only she believed it!


End file.
